tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13504623548189060072024-03-05T09:58:48.007-08:00On the LevelTeresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06718715011259568557noreply@blogger.comBlogger12125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1350462354818906007.post-24316652559520946932009-04-07T20:44:00.000-07:002009-04-25T10:09:17.608-07:00April 29, 1924: evening<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR44j0ew1A84SYV7tXtYkUj7Lx-MuEOXYM3LegZU3g6grjteiDuVqxkfsV3IF0WXEYKXgCnvvM6gF0ez9CS9u3T6e8-vpWN6xPht3vMRe0K_nX1HkfJYuJYviszsbGt9bRAGaQNxtsE_Y/s1600-h/flapper.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 158px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR44j0ew1A84SYV7tXtYkUj7Lx-MuEOXYM3LegZU3g6grjteiDuVqxkfsV3IF0WXEYKXgCnvvM6gF0ez9CS9u3T6e8-vpWN6xPht3vMRe0K_nX1HkfJYuJYviszsbGt9bRAGaQNxtsE_Y/s200/flapper.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322161811336423826" border="0" /></a>When Cati arrived at her apartment, she dropped her purse on the settee in the front room and sat down heavily beside it. After a moment, she reached into the fabric bag and rustled around until she found her cigarettes and matches. She sat and smoked and stared absently at a stray piece of black lint on the cream-colored rug beneath her feet.<br /><br />She was trying not to think.<br /><br />She lit a second cigarette and picked up the receiver of the telephone on the side table. "Emma, love!" she said with whole-hearted false cheer. "Join me at the Cellar tonight!"<br /><br />Cati finished her cigarette and reached into her purse again. This time her hand emerged with a flask, from which she took a healthy swig of gin. Grabbing her purse, she returned the silver container to its place as she hurried down the hall to her bedroom.<br /><br />Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a figure move across the kitchen door. "Hello, Magda," she called out to her housekeeper. "I'm only here a moment. I'll be going out with Emma shortly."<br /><br />Cati took her pistol out from where she kept it in her lingerie drawer. She slipped it into her purse beside the slim cigarette case, the little book of matches, and the tarnished flask. There was a sealed tube in there, too, with an odd, mercurial fluid collected in the bottom.<br /><br />Putting its existence out of her mind, she turned and headed out to catch a cab.Teresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06718715011259568557noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1350462354818906007.post-37445567258129680772009-02-22T09:25:00.000-08:002009-02-22T09:53:37.027-08:00April 29, 1924<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwzUthPBrtVe46KA2lOGz_kEWTwze_YuNIZXnpnAwzErfXmyR0fIz52d_HPl8X8ekzDB79BrLSTtdd0vgaZ7Z2jizFURlTSaLmw4e-Eg6dIjDVFFYRlTlzg0R_eeDUHHv-WpWE4VaERCg/s1600-h/purse.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwzUthPBrtVe46KA2lOGz_kEWTwze_YuNIZXnpnAwzErfXmyR0fIz52d_HPl8X8ekzDB79BrLSTtdd0vgaZ7Z2jizFURlTSaLmw4e-Eg6dIjDVFFYRlTlzg0R_eeDUHHv-WpWE4VaERCg/s200/purse.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305675097709061778" border="0" /></a>Cati searched on top of her vanity and then dug through her purse. She couldn't remember where she had put her favorite lipstick. She had been more distracted than usual in the last few days.<br /><br />The night before, Cati had finally called Jacqueline Whitcombe. She gave Mags' sister her condolences, but apart from that, Cati hadn't known what else to say. Truth be told, Cati hadn't been very close to Mags, and she didn't much like Jacqueline either. She felt a certain amount of obligation to reach out to Mags' family, however, due to the fact that she'd somehow gotten involved in chasing after her companion and her killer.<br /><br />She had also called, in part, to make herself feel better. It hadn't worked.<br /><br />Cati finally found the little golden tube under a discarded pair of stockings on the corner of the vanity. She leaned over the vanity's surface to peer at herself in the mirror and smeared the color on her lips. Satisfied, she headed out to hail a cab to Henri's shop.Teresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06718715011259568557noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1350462354818906007.post-65048882793455044742009-01-07T05:38:00.000-08:002009-01-07T06:00:54.867-08:00April 23, 1924: evening<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUvMWkOewFkn9r0PMK1ZiOwAYltJWnqapCrIGKQeOZ3elMkYQm6F_4MkROsx4Zl-CF2zHriV44S62b9v_w__zA0jKnc_qdean7QyKIFJQTfKo0MaLJ9b6RzQurQ11so9YO1uiJfiZ2Pqc/s1600-h/shop.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 152px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUvMWkOewFkn9r0PMK1ZiOwAYltJWnqapCrIGKQeOZ3elMkYQm6F_4MkROsx4Zl-CF2zHriV44S62b9v_w__zA0jKnc_qdean7QyKIFJQTfKo0MaLJ9b6RzQurQ11so9YO1uiJfiZ2Pqc/s200/shop.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288548002249156226" border="0" /></a>When Cati arrived at Huey's shop, there were several other customers ahead of her. Cati waited, impatiently, until the others had been helped. Many of them were folks she recognized from the neighborhood, though no one she knew by name. She kept herself busy by mentally critiquing the older ladies' choices in fashion.<br /><br />She looked at the clock hanging on the wall above the shop door. She wondered how the fellows were faring in their search for information. She thought, too, about poor Mags, who, while she had possessed an often quite irritating and self-focused demeanor, clearly did not deserve to meet her end at such a young age. It was probably best, Cati decided, if one did not get involved in matters of the occult.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Too late.</span><br /><br />After what seemed to Cati to be an incredibly long time, she was finally able to get to the counter. "Hi there, Huey," she said. "Are my photos ready?"Teresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06718715011259568557noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1350462354818906007.post-22217068669863607792008-11-09T22:10:00.000-08:002008-11-09T22:11:09.819-08:00April 23, 1924<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTOsYGim4Y60Ha2lIdIX0r10noO2A4yWlbmkJH-6VyQnDZXB57srCOmIMf-bD6Oe4EXvnkdCSBuYQ4YQ0cx9CMrump_XKEJNLMoOBJviqCKI1LUlFjpxeL7evSWCNJ8X4F98pbREZxnmY/s1600-h/kodakjr.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 149px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTOsYGim4Y60Ha2lIdIX0r10noO2A4yWlbmkJH-6VyQnDZXB57srCOmIMf-bD6Oe4EXvnkdCSBuYQ4YQ0cx9CMrump_XKEJNLMoOBJviqCKI1LUlFjpxeL7evSWCNJ8X4F98pbREZxnmY/s200/kodakjr.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5266893624547681890" border="0" /></a>After leaving Henri's shop, Cati hailed a cab and headed back to her apartment. She took her camera from its place in the chest of drawers in the foyer and went into the bedroom. Her dress was draped over the chair beside the vanity, its skirt in a puddle of fabric on the seat. Setting the camera on the vanity, she picked up the dress and held it up in the light coming through the window. There was a faint translucent stain that might have been saliva.<br /><br />She took a moment to set the scene: pulling the curtains to create a dim atmosphere, turning on a small lamp and removing its lamp shade to create the bare bulb light of the dressing room the night before. She draped her dress over a pillow, hoping it would successfully replicate her own lap. Then she snapped a series of photos of her dress from different angles.<br /><br />When she was done, she opened the curtains again and tossed the dress back over the chair. She went into her walk-in closet, where she had a small table set up, and shut the door. In the dark, she took out the negatives and placed them in a small, black bag. Leaving the closet, she put the bag into her purse.<br /><br />Cati then went to the phone. "Margaret Whitcombe, please," she told the operator. After a moment, she said, "Hello, Mags darling, this is Cati Predoviciu. How are you, dear? Swell, that's grand. I was wondering if you could tell me which hospital Rama— um, the swami ended up at. Oh, really? Well, thanks, darling. Good-bye."<br /><br />Cati walked down the street to drop her negatives off with a friend who often developed her photos for her. Then she hailed another cab.Teresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06718715011259568557noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1350462354818906007.post-36302215589896902012008-11-09T21:28:00.000-08:002008-11-09T21:35:03.663-08:00the evening of April 22, 1924<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiknBeJjYjenOCmutadL8grnXJkwP-dJRIhD1IxL4PMHx3HxdNv9deu4i_ADf_Gg4htl7B2cfpQx0XuZV_AbyS_dIkQJtWS8hjJRB4uDrrhp8-HQ1e-50MYYwFcCQeCMjeK4e30WLo6itY/s1600-h/taxi.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 144px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiknBeJjYjenOCmutadL8grnXJkwP-dJRIhD1IxL4PMHx3HxdNv9deu4i_ADf_Gg4htl7B2cfpQx0XuZV_AbyS_dIkQJtWS8hjJRB4uDrrhp8-HQ1e-50MYYwFcCQeCMjeK4e30WLo6itY/s200/taxi.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5266897014273474322" border="0" /></a>Emma was already outside, standing around on the sidewalk. She jogged in her heels, cigarette in hand, right over to Cati as soon as she emerged from the Audubon. "Did you see those guys? They nearly knocked me down hauling Ramaswama out. Sped down the street and nearly killed that fella over there." With her cigarette in its long stem, she gestured over her shoulder to a man standing next to a motorcycle. He arms were open as he energetically explained something to a couple of passers-by. He pointed down the road in the direction that the ambulance went. "Magsy was in there, too." She shivered theatrically. "I'd hate to ever have to ride in an ambulance. They're all just hearses, y'know." She looked disgusted. Her face shifted to worry, then poutiness. Eyes downcast, sneer on her face – she might have even stamped the ground, and it wouldn't have been uncharacteristic for her, either – she said, "Cati, I'm so sorry the show was a flat. We shoulda stayed at the 150. Wanna see if there's any juice le-" The young cop from inside walked by, eyeballing the two women, half-lasciviously, half-paternally. "-ft at home?"<div> <p>During the cab-ride from the Audubon to Cati's place, traffic began to slow down. Emma craned and shifted in her seat to see. "What's up, cabby?"</p><p> "I dunno, accident maybe. Yeh, I can see it now – Mother-Mary-shit! That's Tony Cordola's cab!"</p> <p>"Someone you know?" asked Emma. "I'm sorry."</p> <p>Their taxi was waved through by the police. It stalked by the accident – the cabby stretched his neck to see: The scene was illuminated by flashing red light and the strong, steady beam of police cars – the front of the other cab embraced a streetlamp, which was leaning like some old monument. Its doors hung open like mouth of a dead steel animal, and lolling out of the back seat like its flaccid tongue was the slight arm of a woman.</p> <p>"Yeah. Tony. Ah, Tony," the cabby sighs, "I toldya. Lay off the booze. It's no way to work."<span style="font-size:100%;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size:100%;">The cab slid by. Cati glanced inside the backseat. Her face was bloodied, and her body was limp, but Cati recognized the woman. Emma drew a sharp breath. "That's –" She cut herself off. It was the young woman who had accompanied the dressmaker Henri to Ramanuja's show. Cati looked away. Ramanuja was right – by accident, it seems, but he was right.</span></p><p><span style="font-size:16;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >(text by dasolomon)</span><br /></span></p></div>Teresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06718715011259568557noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1350462354818906007.post-52525104769162671842008-09-11T11:59:00.000-07:002008-09-11T12:02:33.274-07:00April 22, 1924<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDG8mdhPlupn12f1R47Sekx9VgBCIo2Mdvg2qwAlIYB1uLR3Z606oaRtNRJSNeSX-m2uOC83-H2dsIPOoNc2NTaVgGd0HiXNMO-Ra6MC-bU7x6dOw_fZ0Y3OjWf83PmfW_BbgCgzSwus4/s1600-h/telephone_op.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDG8mdhPlupn12f1R47Sekx9VgBCIo2Mdvg2qwAlIYB1uLR3Z606oaRtNRJSNeSX-m2uOC83-H2dsIPOoNc2NTaVgGd0HiXNMO-Ra6MC-bU7x6dOw_fZ0Y3OjWf83PmfW_BbgCgzSwus4/s200/telephone_op.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5244209604554126034" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:courier new;">Telephone message</span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><br />For: Emma</span><span style="font-family:courier new;"> Pemberton<br />Date: April 22 Time: 1:32pm</span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><br /><br />M. Cati Predoviciu</span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><br />Of: Manhattan</span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><br />Message: Meet me at the 150 Club tonight. It’s my wedding anniversary, after all!</span>Teresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06718715011259568557noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1350462354818906007.post-49953568950757524452008-09-09T22:55:00.001-07:002008-09-09T23:36:47.999-07:00February 17, 1924<a style="font-family: times new roman;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-K3WKHLXq9NJ3elhek7dTOWMPF5A9j7AfYW5oQm8i6W37bOCVh7SlLS2qur6dIHzHKPjNNvjdwuFXhAXuzSQLS_NbIYjwTurcIhUFMplfz5okYv-ZqaIiefNGVMjuCPpwQeNilF9cG8E/s1600-h/flapper.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-K3WKHLXq9NJ3elhek7dTOWMPF5A9j7AfYW5oQm8i6W37bOCVh7SlLS2qur6dIHzHKPjNNvjdwuFXhAXuzSQLS_NbIYjwTurcIhUFMplfz5okYv-ZqaIiefNGVMjuCPpwQeNilF9cG8E/s200/flapper.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5244268906508280450" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: times new roman;">Darling Alice,</span><span style="font-family: times new roman;"><br /><br />You will not believe the week I have had. (Then again, you know me so well — you probably will!) My doorbell did not stop ringing. I received flowers, telegrams, jewelry, even an ermine coat! My God, these men are relentless, and they are all convinced they love me. Poor saps. Especially my fly boy Edward, so far away in the Philippines. I imagine he must have had quite a time sending me a whole bouquet of flowers all the way on the other side of the world! He's absolutely stuck on me (though I hardly knew him — we spent one night at the juice joint before he shipped out!), and I don't know how to break it to him that I don't want a handcuff. In fact, I don't even want to be his girl!<br /><br />And then there's Liam. They say you can prevent pregnancy by washing with Coca-Cola of all things! I wonder if it's true...<br /><br />You have failed entirely to tell me about your new daddy. Considering that I have never known you to put aside your work for the sake of a man, he must be absolutely ducky. So do tell!<br /><br />Love,<br />Cati<br /><br /></span>Teresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06718715011259568557noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1350462354818906007.post-3280053731742858022008-09-09T19:37:00.000-07:002008-09-09T22:35:22.555-07:00February 14, 1924<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHM0OJ6mGjhNDHKyX5VPK2DU53nPXa1oxt69kD-Xj0tXJypbVVPxjN3UoYlvvtUbNAPKyCOUGvydnFIPYPPh2JtzKQmCmTW6wsCBOMEejQyJinGYaB_jt4rdkN32xVzNEicMWtMeQrZ8I/s1600-h/lilies.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHM0OJ6mGjhNDHKyX5VPK2DU53nPXa1oxt69kD-Xj0tXJypbVVPxjN3UoYlvvtUbNAPKyCOUGvydnFIPYPPh2JtzKQmCmTW6wsCBOMEejQyJinGYaB_jt4rdkN32xVzNEicMWtMeQrZ8I/s200/lilies.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5244216197436017074" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">My love,</span></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />Each day I do not see you is a tragedy. I yearn for your soft touch and gentle kisses.<br />These flowers cannot express my affection enough. We will be together soon.<br />Happy Valentine's day.<br /><br />Edward</span> </span>Teresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06718715011259568557noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1350462354818906007.post-83769129421594992382008-09-08T13:53:00.001-07:002008-09-09T22:36:41.876-07:00January 29, 1924<span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;" >E. Predoviciu</span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" ><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;" >795 Fifth Ave.</span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" ><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;" >New York City, NY 10003</span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;" >Dear Ms. Predoviciu:</span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;" >Thank you for your submission to Look magazine. At this time, we regret to inform you that we are not accepting unsolicited photographs. We appreciate your time and effort.</span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;" >Please continue to read and enjoy Look magazine.</span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;" >Respectfully,</span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" ><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;" >Charles Humphries</span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" ><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;" >Editor</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br /><a style="font-family: courier new;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwWkpij1IpWHud3P4wgP7sKHrTqEFhtYF2GQ7j0MyEPePox-k50o9sYusGL8q_Jog-vIYmu-sYXDXzW2IPqdOlyCFGjfk94OHox8Y_vgo-J5FrjveaZs8omHf3MhaAtoGlawl5N5tAqzs/s1600-h/still-life.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwWkpij1IpWHud3P4wgP7sKHrTqEFhtYF2GQ7j0MyEPePox-k50o9sYusGL8q_Jog-vIYmu-sYXDXzW2IPqdOlyCFGjfk94OHox8Y_vgo-J5FrjveaZs8omHf3MhaAtoGlawl5N5tAqzs/s320/still-life.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243758032775244578" border="0" /></a></span>Teresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06718715011259568557noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1350462354818906007.post-79432700407654428032008-09-08T09:43:00.000-07:002008-09-09T18:40:10.998-07:00December 7, 1923<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVZ2aQdVlyIQZeBLOzBZgO0CkAIMcSg69ZQgJew0wIRLCFq-zZIPRF9b2vDWcEChcxh1EO3C1tYqHzuMnmRhLUHv9qI6lbUrdorXDFMynHAXkYeUVJJMrJt7TtXofgDmQE0JetzEAD_GY/s1600-h/sisters2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVZ2aQdVlyIQZeBLOzBZgO0CkAIMcSg69ZQgJew0wIRLCFq-zZIPRF9b2vDWcEChcxh1EO3C1tYqHzuMnmRhLUHv9qI6lbUrdorXDFMynHAXkYeUVJJMrJt7TtXofgDmQE0JetzEAD_GY/s200/sisters2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243751270134888322" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Dearest Iulia,</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">I apologize for the delay in my response. I have been incredibly busy, what with Christmas coming so quickly. I am sure you will forgive me once I tell you that I have been doing much shopping for my dear sweet nieces and nephews — do not ever let them think that Aunty Cati is only ever concerned with having a good time and that she does not remember her family at these important times of the year!<br /><br />It was lovely to hear about your trip to Florida. It must have been an adjustment to come back to cold, wet Boston after such a long time spent at the beach. I hear they have alligators down there, though — I am sure you were ready to escape becoming some lizard's dinner! If I ever decide to go out that way, I will be sure to ask your advice on the matter.<br /><br />As to our <u>brother</u>, I can only hope that he plans to attend Christmas dinner at Mother's this year. After the fiasco of last year, however, I am inclined to believe that Gheorghe does not intend to have anything more to do with our family, especially with Father. Did you forget that he reminded the five of us that we are not his true children? Or his insistence that he has no son but Pavel? I understand that you and our siblings yearn for the idyllic days of our youth, but that is no longer the case — just as Gheorghe is no longer who he was even five years ago. The choices Gheorghe makes are his own, and I will stand by his decisions, even if the family feels they are a blight upon our name (certainly, a ridiculous notion!).<br /><br />I do not mean to be a wet blanket, especially at this time of year. This situation with Gheorghe saddens me deeply, but I refuse to be as silent about it as the rest of our family.<br /><br />I look forward to seeing you, Felix, and the children at the end of the month.<br /><br />Yours,<br />Cati<br /></span>Teresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06718715011259568557noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1350462354818906007.post-52386526357445421682008-09-07T22:28:00.000-07:002008-09-07T22:42:27.348-07:00September 12, 1923<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFmQDrqte4sd6wdG0qKtYR-0ntWeojMJsVwAQDcJW_O77Lkb3cnEbLSGMpmUDKJwGfvHDjUxTeNS0CuN6-tcSUtFE8sE6t6Bda5cUU8Pb7JXd2QE2c3wxFvi6OQw1euNLFbNQm1PG8XyE/s1600-h/sisters.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFmQDrqte4sd6wdG0qKtYR-0ntWeojMJsVwAQDcJW_O77Lkb3cnEbLSGMpmUDKJwGfvHDjUxTeNS0CuN6-tcSUtFE8sE6t6Bda5cUU8Pb7JXd2QE2c3wxFvi6OQw1euNLFbNQm1PG8XyE/s200/sisters.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243518169591223938" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:times new roman;">My dearest Mari,</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">My, but you do go on about those children of yours! I do love them, really, but can you imagine if I had my own children by now? The oldest would be six, perhaps seven years old. It gives me shivers just thinking about it. William had wanted us to have children — I am glad that never came to be. How in the world would I have time to go out on the town with the girls?<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;">I am as busy as ever, not only at night (and how!) but with managing William’s money. It is not as hard as everyone said it would be; however, it is far more time consuming than I had imagined. William had many financial advisors, who seem to think they are now mine and who wish me to purchase stocks and bonds. You know how I would prefer to use the money! I am trying to learn as I go, but I am beginning to wonder if it is time I got a financial advisor of my own.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: times new roman;font-family:times new roman;" >It has been too long since we last saw each other, darling sister. Perhaps I will drive up to Connecticut next month. It ought to be lovely this time of year, what with the leaves changing.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">All my love,</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;font-family:times new roman;" >Cati</span>Teresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06718715011259568557noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1350462354818906007.post-8881101315251799792008-09-01T18:59:00.000-07:002008-09-09T19:04:16.708-07:00March 1, 1917<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpo4dPfH30ONQ1HHnD23LpRkhoH7euFcQFDuAuNcOCLqOA00Jq3pLN2VTxu-mhwvVMm4FSLUGzTcb8dK1BOPACcJeEI4dPBrfIJFVjBN6lKeJ7CvS7AI1nOPhmbyF2Jhy5ATNimreV9Qw/s1600-h/invitation+copy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpo4dPfH30ONQ1HHnD23LpRkhoH7euFcQFDuAuNcOCLqOA00Jq3pLN2VTxu-mhwvVMm4FSLUGzTcb8dK1BOPACcJeEI4dPBrfIJFVjBN6lKeJ7CvS7AI1nOPhmbyF2Jhy5ATNimreV9Qw/s400/invitation+copy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5244207314259778402" border="0" /></a>Teresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06718715011259568557noreply@blogger.com0