Hi all,
This is my first post here after being a long time reader, so if there’s any formatting issue, please let me know. This is likely to be a longer post, so I’ll add a TLDR at the end. If you stick with me and read this all the way through, thank you! I hope you’ll excuse me if this gets a little rambley at times. This is the first place I’ve felt comfortable sharing these things.
I’ve been attached to history since I was a child. In particular, the Edwardian era has always “spoken” to me. I’m American in this life, and have come to believe that I have been an American for some time (we’ll get there later). Still, several world events such as the sinking of the Titanic, the Bolshevik Revolution, and the reign of Henry VIII have always stood out to me. Here’s what I know:
My name at one point started with a P. I was born sometime between 1890 and 1905. I’ve come to that conclusion because the great war feels like my time of adolescence, like I was coming of age in society at the same time that the war was forcing me to. I was one of three girls, and was either the middle or the oldest. I had a maternal aunt, Annabelle, whom I was close to. I stayed with her often, I think, and if not often then at least for one long extended period of time. Her home feels comforting, when I think about it. She was young. My father was a fan of photographs; I remember portrait upon portrait of my sisters and I hung around the house. I believe I grew up in New York during my childhood, though I think we moved away before my teen years- maybe because of the war, though I'm unsure. The name Howard, though he was called Howie, has significance for me. I don’t know why. I believe my mother died not long after the birth of my youngest sister.
I can remember many scenes of this life, though not many concrete details. I remember the most about my sisters; they were very different. The one closest to me in age (who’s name I still don’t know, and it bothers me very much not to have it) was sensible. She was pretty, in her own way, but was never vain. I see her in dresses with grass-stained bottoms from sitting in the park across from our home in the city; she had brown hair, with a gentle wave, and her eyes were striking. I don’t remember their color, but I remember that they stood out to anyone she met. “That’s my sister,” I would say, “the one with the eyes.”
My other sister was different. She was radical, and a touch spoiled through no fault of her own. I remember her as being the prettiest of our lot, with skin much more like our father’s tan than our mother’s porcelain, which our other sister and I had inherited. Cynthia, I think, is this sister’s name. Cynthia was an enigma. I don’t remember much about her, and it pains me, but I do remember one incident distinctly. She had slammed her bedroom door during (after?) a party. My other sister and I opened it just after, and I closed it behind us. “**** him!” Cynthia had shouted, and ripped her pearl necklace off her throat. The pearls clattered. I remember the sound distinctly. I dove to gather them off the floor, and our other sister scolded her.
The smell of fresh ink goes along with this life. I remember being sickly, and because of it having the vantage of getting the room with the best view in our home. Howard, whoever he was, was never sick. He died in the war, I think, or somehow shockingly. Whatever the cause, it was unexpected. I don’t think there was a body to say goodbye to.
My father was a journalist, I think, or else a photographer. No matter what he was, he would take me with him when I was older and my sisters were married and out of the house. I don’t know why I wasn’t, but I know my father and I grew close. Him and I, I think (and the emphasis on think is strong) went to Russia around the start of their troubles between 1912 and 1915. I know we left after the Titanic had sunk, because that was a point of contention with my sisters.
I don’t remember much else about that life, though I hope to very soon.
The Civil War era incarnation I struggle with. The facts as I understand them are as follows. My name was plain. I had several brothers. My sister was dead, as was my father. We were Southern, and of some prominence, though not very much. One of my brothers ran off for the Union. His name started with a T. I smoothed my hands over the skirt of my dress when I was uncomfortable.
The memories of the French court are even more blurred. I was someone’s mistress; not the king’s. The idea of that feels dirty to me, so I think I must not have thought highly of the king- whoever he was. The color mint green is associated with this French me, whatever her name may have been. I can remember spending a lot of time in masses.
Now you’re caught up to speed! My hope is that any of these eras, environments, or even people, mean something to one of you. I’d love to discuss each of these versions of me more, especially with someone who can connect to the era/place. Feel free to leave any questions, comments, or otherwise. Also, the TLDR as promised:
TLDR: Memories of past lives in Edwardian New York, American Civil War South, and the French Court in an unknown era. All female incarnations.
Thanks for reading,
Sara
This is my first post here after being a long time reader, so if there’s any formatting issue, please let me know. This is likely to be a longer post, so I’ll add a TLDR at the end. If you stick with me and read this all the way through, thank you! I hope you’ll excuse me if this gets a little rambley at times. This is the first place I’ve felt comfortable sharing these things.
I’ve been attached to history since I was a child. In particular, the Edwardian era has always “spoken” to me. I’m American in this life, and have come to believe that I have been an American for some time (we’ll get there later). Still, several world events such as the sinking of the Titanic, the Bolshevik Revolution, and the reign of Henry VIII have always stood out to me. Here’s what I know:
My name at one point started with a P. I was born sometime between 1890 and 1905. I’ve come to that conclusion because the great war feels like my time of adolescence, like I was coming of age in society at the same time that the war was forcing me to. I was one of three girls, and was either the middle or the oldest. I had a maternal aunt, Annabelle, whom I was close to. I stayed with her often, I think, and if not often then at least for one long extended period of time. Her home feels comforting, when I think about it. She was young. My father was a fan of photographs; I remember portrait upon portrait of my sisters and I hung around the house. I believe I grew up in New York during my childhood, though I think we moved away before my teen years- maybe because of the war, though I'm unsure. The name Howard, though he was called Howie, has significance for me. I don’t know why. I believe my mother died not long after the birth of my youngest sister.
I can remember many scenes of this life, though not many concrete details. I remember the most about my sisters; they were very different. The one closest to me in age (who’s name I still don’t know, and it bothers me very much not to have it) was sensible. She was pretty, in her own way, but was never vain. I see her in dresses with grass-stained bottoms from sitting in the park across from our home in the city; she had brown hair, with a gentle wave, and her eyes were striking. I don’t remember their color, but I remember that they stood out to anyone she met. “That’s my sister,” I would say, “the one with the eyes.”
My other sister was different. She was radical, and a touch spoiled through no fault of her own. I remember her as being the prettiest of our lot, with skin much more like our father’s tan than our mother’s porcelain, which our other sister and I had inherited. Cynthia, I think, is this sister’s name. Cynthia was an enigma. I don’t remember much about her, and it pains me, but I do remember one incident distinctly. She had slammed her bedroom door during (after?) a party. My other sister and I opened it just after, and I closed it behind us. “**** him!” Cynthia had shouted, and ripped her pearl necklace off her throat. The pearls clattered. I remember the sound distinctly. I dove to gather them off the floor, and our other sister scolded her.
The smell of fresh ink goes along with this life. I remember being sickly, and because of it having the vantage of getting the room with the best view in our home. Howard, whoever he was, was never sick. He died in the war, I think, or somehow shockingly. Whatever the cause, it was unexpected. I don’t think there was a body to say goodbye to.
My father was a journalist, I think, or else a photographer. No matter what he was, he would take me with him when I was older and my sisters were married and out of the house. I don’t know why I wasn’t, but I know my father and I grew close. Him and I, I think (and the emphasis on think is strong) went to Russia around the start of their troubles between 1912 and 1915. I know we left after the Titanic had sunk, because that was a point of contention with my sisters.
I don’t remember much else about that life, though I hope to very soon.
The Civil War era incarnation I struggle with. The facts as I understand them are as follows. My name was plain. I had several brothers. My sister was dead, as was my father. We were Southern, and of some prominence, though not very much. One of my brothers ran off for the Union. His name started with a T. I smoothed my hands over the skirt of my dress when I was uncomfortable.
The memories of the French court are even more blurred. I was someone’s mistress; not the king’s. The idea of that feels dirty to me, so I think I must not have thought highly of the king- whoever he was. The color mint green is associated with this French me, whatever her name may have been. I can remember spending a lot of time in masses.
Now you’re caught up to speed! My hope is that any of these eras, environments, or even people, mean something to one of you. I’d love to discuss each of these versions of me more, especially with someone who can connect to the era/place. Feel free to leave any questions, comments, or otherwise. Also, the TLDR as promised:
TLDR: Memories of past lives in Edwardian New York, American Civil War South, and the French Court in an unknown era. All female incarnations.
Thanks for reading,
Sara
