The Egg

       No one really knew Ellie well.  She was an artist…and quite eccentric.  When anyone asked her brother Nick, he always kind of smiled in a wistful way and explained that Ellie was simply Ellie.  Whatever that meant!  She had lived abroad for years studying, living, and breathing art in Florence, Paris, and finally London before coming home to the states with a broken heart in the early ‘80’s.  She never really said much about the love affair that sent her home to lick her wounds and Nick never asked.  He figured she would tell all when she was ready.  Since then she had withdrew into herself, selling her exquisite paintings and managing a top gallery in New York.   Nick’s family knew her simply as Aunt Ellie.  Those that worked with her thought she was a genius, but odd.  Nick’s children thought her weird, but fun in a way.  She felt awkward around them, and even though they visited her on occasion and invited her for holiday celebrations she rarely came.  Nick worried about her being so alone, but she assured him she was fine.

    Several months ago, Ellie had notified Nick that she had terminal cancer and the end was near.  In complete shock when she died a week later, Nick had taken her death particularly hard.  How could she not have told him?  How could she have not shared what little time she had left with him?  Surely she had known for a while.  Why had she chosen to suffer alone?    He should have gone to her.  He should have forced her to celebrate holidays with him and his family.  He should have made more time for her.  What he should have done was entirely beyond the point now.  She was gone.   He wasn’t surprised when he was notified by a law firm that he was in charge of settling up her estate.  What did shock him was that his sister had been an extremely wealthy woman and according to the attorney, her wealth and all her worldly possessions, barring a hefty sum she wanted donated to the Princes Trust were now his to do with as he pleased.

       He sat in her brownstone now sifting through boxes of correspondence growing more amazed as he read.  There were letters from the Prince of Wales dating back to the early 1970’s, very affectionate letters.  He found photos taken during that time period of Ellie snuggling up with Prince Charles near the easels where their artwork waited for them to commence with their painting.  His sister was intimate with the Prince of Wales?  He felt the room spin, as he read letters which indicated a brief affair and then the lifelong friendship which resulted.  Then he found Christmas cards from various members of the Royal family, and even a personal note from Diana, the Princess of Wales herself.  Even more recent, a card from just last Christmas!  She had never said a word...and he had never thought to ask!

        He went through her personal effects finally realizing why his sister never married, and why she had valued her privacy so much.  She had been in love with the Prince of Wales.  The Prince of Wales!!   While she adored him, she had no desire for the lifestyle he led.  She never wanted any fame; she only wanted to be left alone to create her art…which is what she did.  The Prince, busy with his naval career at the time had understood and had seen her for the gem she was and had obviously been friends with her till her untimely death.  In a back closet he found a box that had been shipped straight from London shortly after she had returned to the states.  Inside was a beautiful solid gold Faberge Egg, an Easter gift from the Prince.

         Nick had no idea the worth of such an item but when he tried to take it to a dealer found that the Prince’s small gift was now worth an estimated 20 million pounds.  Not only did he discover secrets about his sister that he never knew but also a treasure trove among her possessions, trinkets from a long ago love affair and friendship with a prince.  With her death he discovered a side of her he never knew.  Leave it to Ellie to have kept such an extraordinary secret.

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When I Grow Up-BFF 195

     When I was a little girl I never fancied myself growing up to be a writer.  I wanted to be an artist, famous preferably.  As I grew, my dream evolved.  I still wanted to be an artist, but my art gradually took different forms. 

      All through school I expressed myself through my art work.  I drew and painted and once in high school took every art class I was allowed to.  I loved art, and was totally driven.  At the same time I became interested in music.  I spent all of my teenage years going to Oak Ridge Boys concerts with my mom.  If they were anywhere close, we were there.  Even when they weren’t close, we were there.  My mom loved them, and loved to travel and took great pleasure in combining the two.  I knew I wasn’t very musical even though I always sang in the choir and enjoyed it.  What really fascinated me was running the sound system.  When it came time to choose colleges, my art took a back seat and my desire to be apart of the exciting music business took center stage.

       It didn’t take me long to realize that my heart wasn’t really in it, and I followed my heart back home to Indiana.  Once again the passion for my art screamed to be noticed.  I enrolled in graphic design school part time and followed my dream.  I was dedicated and completely focused on the brass ring until my mom got sick.  At that point taking care of her took more and more of my time and my art began to slip back into the shadows.  By the time she died, I knew I had no more desire to draw, paint, or be perfect.  I was consumed with grief.  At that point in my life I simply knew that my days as an artist were over.  My heart had shifted gears and my life drifted for several years while I struggled to find my way.

         I learned a lot during that time period.  I learned that I liked doing things that had no grey areas.  Either it was right or wrong with no in between.  Art is measured by other’s opinions.  I found when I created my art; I put entirely too much of my soul into each piece along with the blood, sweat, and tears.  Each criticism became a personal attack instead of encouragement to perfect my work.  I realized that kind of system drove me bloody insane.  I could not do it anymore. 

          At that point I realized that what I really wanted when I grew up was pretty simplistic.  I wanted to be happily married, have a home of my own, and be someone’s mommy.  Providence knows women all over the world have managed to accomplish that, so surely I could.  All of a sudden, it seemed like my lofty ideals that once meant so very much no longer mattered.  I wanted to be a wife and mother and that became the number one priority on my list.  

     

        At this point in my life, I no longer draw or paint.  It is not that I can’t, it is that I choose not to.  Instead I write and paint with my words.  Paired with the perfect visuals and the perfect music to illustrate them to my satisfaction, I find myself still painting a fabulous picture.  This picture is much more satisfying and can be perfected with spell check.  Maybe that is why I feel compelled to do it.  I have finally found an outlet for my creativity that works for me.  It is fun, and I like to have fun.  I like to laugh.  I am simply incapable of acting pious and like I have a broomstick rammed up my a$$.  I like to act nuts.  I am not sure what I want to be when I grow up or that I even want too, but I think I am headed in the right direction until next time when I give you another glimpse into the life of a trucker’s wife.