Pam Keaton - Portraits and Illustrations

Abby loved the smell of coffee brewing. It reminded her of breakfast at her grandmother's house, after sleeping in an old-fashioned feather bed. She couldn't remember what the occasions were that had prompted her whole family to spend the night at Grandma's. It could have been too late to drive home or too cold to spend time starting fires in their own heating stoves. Or it could have been a holiday or a birthday that next day. Whatever the reason, when Abby descended the steps to the main floor of the large farmhouse the next morning, her nostrils were met with the amazing smells of bacon and eggs, biscuits, and coffee. Maybe that was the reason that breakfast had always been Abby's favorite meal to eat in a restaurant. She and Tom could sit there talking for hours while the waitress kept filling their coffee cups and familiar aromas floated around them.

This morning, Abby poured herself a cup of coffee and pulled a stool from the corner so she could sit at her baker's cabinet. This had become part of a morning ritual that began with twisting open the blinds and looking out the kitchen window at the sunlight washing over the grass and the weathered boards of the old covered bridge that was the main landmark in this small town. Each morning, she would compare the light patterns with the morning before and wonder if she could paint well enough to do it justice. Several other artists had photographed, drawn, and painted that bridge; but not many could actually stand in their own kitchen and study it. Abby promised herself that she would do at least one painting of it before she and Tom moved on.

Abby learned a long time ago that Tom was not a morning person like herself; so she spent this early morning time alone with her thoughts. As she sat there, she gently ran the fingers of one hand along the top of the pulled-out countertop and studied its surface. The scratches would have happened naturally from constant use, but she wondered what particular events had caused the chipping on the front edge. Having decided it had probably been hit by falling pots or unopened canned goods, Abby raised her gaze to the wooden doors of the upper cabinet.

Whoever had given this cabinet its most recent facelift had elected not to strip off the old paint first. The loose paint had been scraped, but the surface had not been sanded smooth; so now Abby could see a crackled pattern beneath the thin coat of new paint. She ran her fingers along the pattern and thought how the lines reminded her of human wrinkles. In fact, the scars, age spots, and life lines of this piece warmed Abby. She was in the presence of a veteran of the turn of the Nineteenth Century; of the Great Depression; of both World Wars; and many other events that Abby had not witnessed herself. Still, this cabinet was as solid and functional as it had been the day it was made. Someone had well cared for it over the years and appreciated it, as Abby did now.

One of the many things that Abby and Tom had in common was an appreciation for well-constructed furniture and a love for the past. They often said that they should have been born fifty years earlier since they related better with the people of that time period than they did with their contemporaries. They both loved the older music, movies, clothing, ethics, patriotism, and overall class that they saw in photographs and heard about in stories. Their common respect for the past had been a large part of what had drawn Tom and Abby together. Their favorite date and vacation memories involved tours of historic homes, museums, and preserved train terminals. They would often stay after the tours and talk with the docents who always seemed willing to share more information with those who sought it.

That is what Abby would do now, she thought. She would get more information about Lillian Turner. She would do this because she felt a connection, not just with her baker's cabinet, but also with its previous owner and the people of this town who had been Lillian's friends and neighbors. Abby so wished that she and Tom had been a part of their lives. She could have helped the ladies make butter, or soap, or sourdough bread while Tom helped the men plow the fields, smoke the meat, or build a new barn. Then later, she and Tom could have sat in the porch swing talking about their day, or could have fallen asleep on the screened porch listening to crickets and watching the flashes of fireflies.