Elizabeth Musser has written a powerful novel of love, compassion, and self-discovery set in 1962 Atlanta.
The Swan House tells the story of one young woman's struggle to understand loss and the faith that she ultimately finds.
Chapter 1 Orly Airfield, Paris, France June 3, 1962
In my mind, the nine months from the first of June 1962 until the end of February of the following year were what I afterward called "the year of death." I suppose it was the worst year of my life in many ways, certainly the most painful. And yet, as I have so often seen since, it was a year of discovery and change, and ultimately of hope. And there were wonderful parts too -- the first time I fell in love, the first time I learned to really see someone else, the first time I dared to venture outside myself. And most importantly, it was the year that I discovered the truth, and truth always sets us free. So maybe I should call it not the year of death, but the year of freedom.
This is how it happened, as best I can piece those first days together from what I've been told and from what I lived.
John Jason Middleton, my forty-year-old father, lifted his arm and waved happily to his wife and my mother, Sheila, as she headed to the large aircraft. Then, on an impulse, he ran out of the glass doors and caught her in a tight embrace, kissed her on the lips, and pressed his hand against her fine silken hair. She laughed at him, her jade eyes twinkling and her wide, delicious mouth painted bright pink. "See you tomorrow, sweetheart."
He watched as his wife and many of their friends boarded the Boeing 707 bound from Paris to Atlanta. The three-week trip with over a hundred other Atlantans had been perfect in every way. A dozen different scenes flashed through his mind. Dancing with Sheila. Sheila on the Champs-Elysses. Sheila, arms piled high with packages from Galleries Lafayette. And of course Sheila weeping in front of a Rembrandt ...
We were Episcopalians, and Grandmom and Granddad and Daddy and Mama went to the Cathedral of St. Philip right up the street from us. The cathedral, which had recently been rebuilt, was a magnificent building constructed of what was called Tennessee quartzite—a pretty yellow-hued stone. It sat up on a hill on a small promontory that jutted out, not into water, but into Peachtree Road just as the road veered right, so that you couldn’t help but notice the beautiful cathedral as you drove by. Jimmy and I usually went to church on Sunday mornings, although we’d slacked off the past few weeks with Mama and Daddy gone.
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