One of the worst things a writer can experience is ‘block’. One sits down to compose great literature and finds that the only ideas flowing onto paper are those with absolutely no significance whatever. Grocery lists, schedules, and “Things to Do When I Find the Time” cover the page, but not one letter of it is relevant to one’s grand purpose.

Ingrid had suffered from this sort of block many times before. A great many of her published works had in fact begun as shopping lists. However, it never ceased to irritate her that she seemed to be under the curse of some greater form of life-long block that had never quite managed to clear itself out of her way.

It wasn’t as if she was unable to write at all. In fact, she had stacks of manuscripts piled in the attic. Essays, short stories, novels, even a few biographies. During her years in Florence she’d supplemented her income by writing articles about Italian art and culture for ladies’ magazines, and every article that ever made it into print was enshrined in her filing cabinet. However, nothing she had ever written had managed to communicate precisely what she wanted the world to hear. In consequence, she’d given up getting published decades ago, as soon as her financial situation allowed for it.

One morning shortly after the arrival of the long-lost Alice and her precocious daughter (and after the sooty mess of their “Welcome Home” dinner had been cleared up and dust of a friendlier nature had begun to settle), Ingrid parked herself behind the old Underwood and began to type.

It was nine o’clock on a Saturday, and young Annie happened to be playing with Melchoir out on the verandah. His feline ears were quick to detect the pecking of the Underwood. For reasons known only to himself, Melchoir felt duty bound to be present when his mistress set to work, and made it his business to twine himself round her ankles for the duration.

Having nothing better to do, Annie followed his bushy grey tail up the stairs to Ingrid’s dormer room. She paused shyly at the door, as Melchoir unabashedly nosed his way through and made a bee-line for his accustomed station at Ingrid’s ankles.

Ingrid appeared not to notice, and hammered away undisturbed. Annie, hidden in the shadows of the hall, studied her great-aunt with an expression of wonder and interest.

Annie had never beheld her Aunt ‘at work’, and the picture was an interesting one. Wrapped in her usual kimono of moth-eaten scarlet silk, white hair flying in every direction, Ingrid stared intently at the keys pencil tucked behind one ear, peering through thick, horn-rimmed spectacles that she’d owned since 1955 and wore only when typing. A small Brown Betty rested nearby, an empty teacup beside it. Her appearance reminded Annie of a crazed scarlet owl.

Just then, Melchoir who’d been purring and twining most devotedly decided to press his luck and hop onto Ingrid’s knees.

Apparently she had not been expecting 10 pounds of feline affection to deposit itself into her lap, and leapt back in her chair, sending the teacup that perched precariously at the desk’s edge on a suicide mission to the floor.

Annie began to giggle uncontrollably, and thus blew her cover. Ingrid’s head shot up, and the bewildered way in which she blinked through the horn-rimmed spectacles only added to the hilarity of the moment. While Annie continued to sputter in the hall, Ingrid calmly collected both her composure and the bits of shattered teacup and said “Well don’t just stand out there trying to be civil. You were spying on an old woman- Admit it!”

“You just look so…”

“Ridiculous is the word, though you were no doubt looking for a kinder one. Your grandmother often said so. It can’t be helped. I was never able to work any other way. Come in and sit down. We haven’t had an opportunity of getting properly aquainted yet.”

Annie stepped in, and settled into the dainty chintz covered chair that Ingrid pulled up to the desk for her.

“I’m Anne, and it’s a pleasure to meet you Aunt Ingrid.” She said, gravely extending her small hand. Ingrid accepted it with equal gravity. “I’m your crabby old Aunt Ingrid, and it’s lovely to meet you young Annie. Lovely weather we’ve been having isn’t it? What do you think of California? Does it agree with you?”

“Oh yes. I find it suits me admirably. The lack of humidity is quite refreshing.”

“You’ve got quite a vocabulary for a little girl of your age and generation. Are you fond of reading?”

“Insatiably fond, Aunt Ingrid. The Classics are my especial delight.”

“Delight? Well, well. How interesting. Which of the classics, pray tell.”

“The works of Miss Austen, Miss Alcott and the Miss Bronte’s are great favorites ma’am.”

“Are they indeed?”

“Oh yes. I also have a few contemporary idols. Perhaps you are familiar with the work of a certain Miss Delaney? Authoress of Hildegarde’s Whim?”

Ingrid pulled out the cushion that supported the small of her back and walloped her literary-minded niece with it.

“Impudent little hussy! Surely your mother told you I regard all those novels as absolute rubbish!”

Annie laughed wickedly and nodded.

“Of course she did. That’s why I brought it up. But really Aunt Ingrid, I’ve read the copies my mom has and I think lot’s of people would agree that they were very well written.”

“Yes, I was a stickler for form in those days. But that doesn’t excuse the fact that they are all, without exception, sentimental slush of the first water. It’s what made them so popular. I was writing to make money in those days Annie dear. I always supposed that once I was established I could start publishing important literary monuments. ‘The Great American Novel’ and all that. However, I made the mistake of building a reputation on fluff. I established a base of silly minded female readers, and when I tried to publish more serious works, the editors would have none of it because they knew it wasn’t what my readers wanted.”

“Well when was the last time you tried? You’re still writing aren’t you?”

Ingrid smiled wearily. “Some habits just never die, Annie. I’m all washed up and I know it, but it’s the only hobby I’ve ever had. Needlepoint and knitting simply don’t agree with me. Nor do collecting Beanie Babies, or ceramics or any other occupation deemed acceptable for old folks like me. I garden a bit, and read, and potter around the house, and visit friends. But writing is my standing occupation, and I don’t suppose I’ll ever give it up.”

“What were you writing about just now?”

Ingrid yanked the sheet out of the typewriter and handed it to Annie with an expression that clearly said “Don’t expect much.”

Annie began to read the page in an imposing and authoritative tone.

“Bread, wheat and white. Doughnuts- frosted. Milk. Chocolate Milk. Chocolate. Tea. Broccoli. Strawberries. Pineapple. Eggs. Hose- but you’ve got a hose Aunt Ingrid. I saw it on the porch.”

“It’s an old-person word for panty-hose. I could also say silk stockings. That’s what they were in my day.”

“What was your day?”

“Any time before the present really. Now, young Annie, enough about me. If we talk about me any longer I’ll be forced to start describing my physical ailments and those of my friends, and nobody wants to listen to that. Tell me about you. What do you do with yourself most of the time?”

Annie laughed and replied “Well not much since we got here, besides helping you and mom clean up from the fire. I guess I’ve been reading a lot. And exploring the attic. Your attic is totally awesome Aunt Ingrid. School’s out you know, and all my friends are back home. Mom and I have gone shopping a few times, but she’s so busy looking for work we don’t talk much. It’s only been a week or so since we came though.”

“I was always fond of a good attic myself as a girl.” said Ingrid, making a mental note to invite Imogene and her granddaughter over as soon as she possibly could. “What have you been unearthing up there?”

“Lots of old clothes and photo albums and” Annie stopped suddenly and changed direction. “Just lot’s of old things. It’s really a great place.”

“What were you about to say?”

“Ummm….”

“Out with it. I expect it’s something really terrible. I hope it is. It’s been a long time since I’ve had the pleasure of walloping a little girl with broomstick.”

“Well there’s lots of stuff you wrote up there. I’ve kind of been reading some of it.”

“Kind of? Tell me child, how does one ‘kind of’ read something?”

Annie looked up to gage her Aunt’s reaction and, finding that Ingrid was utterly unperturbed, relaxed.

“Oh, well I guess I meant that I’ve been reading some of it. It’s all really good, I think. Why didn’t you ever try and get it published?”

Ingrid smiled and shook her head. “No, no. This will never do. We’re talking about me again. Kindly step back under the interrogation lamp where you belong, if you please.”

“Well, I guess I really don’t do much of anything right now. Oh, that reminds me, Mom wanted me to ask you if she thought we could go visit my Grandma today. I haven’t seen her in a long while. She came to visit us a couple times when I was little you know. Before she got sick.”

Ingrid nodded slowly. “Yes, I know. You’ll find her a very different person now. But I don’t see why we can’t go to see her. I visited on Wednesday afternoon, and she seemed to be doing fairly well. Where is your mother?”

“She’s in her room, working on her resume again. She says that every interview she has gives her new ideas about how to improve it.”

“Have either of you had breakfast?”

“I have. Mom usually doesn’t eat breakfast.”

“All right then. Go tell your mother to be ready to leave by eleven. We’ll visit Ellen and go to lunch afterward.”

Annie went, and Ingrid’s eyes followed her with great interest. This little girl was the very image of herself at that age. But she had a way about her that unnerved Ingrid. There was a perpetual shadow behind those brilliant young eyes that often made Annie appear somewhat older and harder than a twelve year old girl should be. However, considering recent events, this was not at all surprising to Ingrid.

Which lead her to another subject that’d been no small source of wonder. In the week and a half since mother and daughter had arrived, not a word had been dropped regarding the reason for their coming. Alice hadn’t said a word about her husband Charlie, though perhaps that was not as strange as Annie’s complete silence on the same subject. For a young girl who has recently lost her father, she didn’t behave as though she mourned him or even remembered him at all.

Ingrid’s desire for enlightenment on these subjects was becoming increasingly difficult to restrain. But she’d promised herself that would NOT sink to the level of unabashed prying, and she meant to see the resolution through to the bitter end. And if she literally died of curiosity while waiting for her nieces to talk, so be it. Her days were numbered anyway.

As the venerable old grandfather clock in the front hall chimed eleven, the three ladies piled into the Packard and set off for Groveland Meadows, the nursing home where Ellen resided. It would be the first time that Alice and Anne had seen Ellen in nearly five years.