{"id":1091,"date":"2013-08-26T20:37:01","date_gmt":"2013-08-26T20:37:01","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/nantucketantiquesdepot.wordpress.com\/?p=261"},"modified":"2021-07-12T14:17:54","modified_gmt":"2021-07-12T14:17:54","slug":"antiques-depot-2013-writing-contest-winner-age-6-to-12","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/nantucketantiquesdepot.com\/?p=1091","title":{"rendered":"Antiques Depot 2013 Writing Contest Winner (Age 6 to 12)"},"content":{"rendered":"

The second annual “Antiques Depot Writing Contest… with an Antiques Twist”<\/strong> was a great success. We are amazed at the many terrific stories that were submitted by our young authors. Here is this year’s winning story in the Under Twelve age group, submitted by Sophie Manning, age eleven, who was inspired by a very unusual Victorian whimsey: A Pair of Lady’s Gloves Compressed inside a Walnut Shell. Incidentally, Sophie wasn’t tempted by modern electronic gadgetry (an ereader), and instead chose the Walnut Shell and gloves for her prize.<\/p>\n

\"The<\/a>
The Manning sisters searching the Antiques Depot for their inspiration.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

In a Nutshell<\/span><\/p>\n

By Sophie Manning<\/span><\/p>\n

Mrs. Diana Coe<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I shiver as I stand on the deck of the RMS Queen Mary, leaning over the rail. It\u2019s especially cold for March, but the sea spray feels good on my face. Suddenly, I\u2019m aware that I\u2019m completely alone on the rocking deck; no one else had dared to venture outside on such a cold day as this. I wonder where my son is. He\u2019s supposed to be my escort, but so far, I\u2019ve only glimpsed him once or twice, much less actually had him escort me anywhere! It\u2019s not considered proper for a lady to be venturing outside her quarters alone on a ship of this size, but what choice do I have when my husband is home in London, and Thomas is nowhere in \u00a0sight. Besides, I get terribly seasick in my room with no cool air circulating. My cousin Victoria had been the one to suggest travelling to France to attend a piano recital performed by Franz Liszt, a popular composer in Europe. She said that I simply <\/span>must<\/span> see him in Paris (even though he is coming to perform in England in a short while), because it is supposed to be his best recital yet. So, after much coaxing, I had to agree. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Originally, it was supposed to be my husband and I voyaging to France together, but, two days before the time of departure, a very important business opportunity came up that he couldn\u2019t ignore. All of my close relatives live nearby each other in London, save my sister, her daughter and her late husband, who died recently of a terrible sickness. They now live on a faraway island called Nantucket to \u00a0which they have just moved barely a year before now. \u00a0\u00a0It \u00a0would be impossible for me to cancel my voyage without causing uproar among my family, who are all incredibly excited to hear about the performance.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Sighing, I head back inside, knowing that I have to get ready for the luncheon with the family with the cabin next to ours. We are to meet them in the Grand Dining room in an hours time. \u00a0As I walked back to my room, I wonder if the recital will be worth all this.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 It is just after we finish eating when we hear the foghorn signifying that we have arrived at last. Bidding goodbye to the kind family, Thomas brings me back to our cabin to change into my traveling clothes and to pack my trunks. I\u2019m more than anxious to get off the ship, (even though it\u2019s one of the finest in the world), so I hurry \u00a0onto the deck to watch it pull in with the others. An automobile is waiting for us just outside the harbor gates, and we soon find our luggage. Before long, we\u2019re driving to our hotel. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 As much as Thomas is trying to make today as enjoyable as possible, so far the word I would use to describe it is: Hectic. \u00a0It\u2019s taking us longer than seems necessary to find our seats because the hall is so crowded and noisy, but when Liszt sits down at the elegant, black piano, the silence is complete. Sound seems to almost flow from his fingers as he performs his compositions one after another. He easily keeps the attention on him as he plays with such movement and feeling that clearly nobody could tear their eyes away from. He plays a series of songs that I later find out are called: <\/span>\u201cRobert le Diable.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cOh cousin Victoria, you were right to make me come,\u201d I silently think. My only worry is that I won\u2019t ever be able to describe it accurately \u00a0to my family back home.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 After an hour, the performance ends and the audience rises for a standing ovation, Thomas and I included. But before long the crowd begins to get rowdy, pushing their way up closer towards the stage, and almost trying to pull Liszt off it! And that\u2019s when Thomas decides it\u2019s a good time to leave. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Back on the streets, it\u2019s only mildly busy, which I\u2019m sure is normal for Paris. I decide that it\u2019s the perfect time to purchase souvenirs for some of my closest relatives. Thomas leads me to a small, and frankly very dusty souvenir shop that he had spotted on the way to the hotel. Almost as soon as we enter the store, Thomas disappears into the back in search of some cigars, while I browse around the entrance. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 It doesn\u2019t take long for me to find a gift for cousin Victoria. She absolutely adores the opera, and really any other recital or show there is, so I buy her a beautiful pair of mother of pearl opera glasses. \u00a0For my girls, I get two matching blue silk hair ribbons that are the exact color of their eyes. As for my husband, I\u2019d put Thomas in charge of finding that gift.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I\u2019m intrigued by all the other merchandise as well, so I decide to just look around before we leave. I walk along rows and rows of brown shelves, my eyes skimming all the objects there. Books, hair bonnets, jewelry boxes, paintings of Paris, walnut shells\u2026 Walnut shells? I look closer, my curiosity piqued Something was folded and stuffed into them! I practically jog to the man standing behind his desk, and hold them out in front in front of me. \u201cWhat are they, sir?\u201d I ask, pushing them towards him. \u201cAh, yes.\u201d He says, taking off his spectacles. He takes \u00a0one from me gently. \u201cThey\u2019re white leather lady\u2019s gloves, folded so tiny that they may be stuffed into a walnut shell,\u201d he answers, examining them carefully. \u201cI could\u2019ve taken them out for display, but they were so I interesting that I couldn\u2019t resist keeping them like this.\u201d He looked up at me. \u201cWould you like to buy them?\u201d he asks. Suddenly I remember my poor niece. Living on a remote island with nobody but her mother to keep her company, her father (and my brother in law) dead and the rest of her family in London. I imagine how much joy she would find in taking out the little gloves and marveling over who could possibly fold them so tiny. And I hear myself reply: \u201cYes, I\u2019ll take them.\u201d I would send them to my tragic little niece.<\/span><\/p>\n

\"A<\/a>
A Whimsical Victorian Souvenier: A Pair of Lady’s Gloves Compressed into a Beribboned Walnut Shell case.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

Elizabeth Coe<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I\u2019m in the middle of chopping up a bluefish when my mother steps into in fish shop, holding a letter in her hand. Without speaking, she hands it to me. I haven\u2019t seen a letter so fine since we\u2019d moved to Nantucket. It is on thick, beige paper with elegant cursive writing addressed to me. I stare at the <\/span>D <\/span>\u00a0engraved on the crimson seal; it is \u00a0big with lots of curlicues, Aunt Diana\u2019s seal. \u201cOh, yes,\u201d my mother says quietly, \u201cthis came with the letter.\u201d She hands me a small package. I place it on the clean part of the counter and slide open the envelope with a butter knife. But then I notice my hands. They\u2019re covered in fish blood and scales; my fingernails are caked with dirt. Feeling \u00a0ashamed, I move to the sink and rinse my hands. After drying them with a loose dishtowel, I go back to the letter:<\/span><\/p>\n

My Darling Niece, Elizabeth,<\/span><\/p>\n

I have recently visited Paris to attend a wonderful performance by Franz Liszt. <\/span><\/p>\n

In my travels, I couldn\u2019t help but think of you. Nearly all alone in a strange island, your father deceased and your mother devastated. And when I saw these nutshells containing tiny lady\u2019s gloves, I knew how much it would mean to you to have a new pair of leather gloves all the way from France. To remind you that you\u2019ll always be a British young lady at heart.<\/span><\/p>\n

Your loving Aunt,<\/span><\/p>\n

Diana Coe<\/span><\/p>\n

Reading the letter, I feel a sudden pang of sadness deep in my chest, in one way, I don\u2019t \u00a0want to open the package, for fear that it would hurt me too much to remember how things used to be. But in another, I am incredibly curious. My curiosity \u00a0wins over and I rip off the packaging eagerly, looking up every so often to make sure that the owner of the shop isn\u2019t paying attention. Inside, as promised on the letter, are two \u00a0hard halves of a walnut shell tied together with \u00a0a piece \u00a0of blue ribbon. Each one is stuffed with some kind of white cloth (according to the letter, the gloves) with a piece of tissue paper covering each one. Eagerly, I pry one glove out of a shell and hold it up to the light to examine it. It looks so much like those \u00a0I used to wear in London: Same clean white leather, same slight, slim finger slots and even the same seam running from the heel of the hand to the palm. I used to wear gloves to parties and teas, and \u00a0I never dreamed that I would be wearing one \u00a0like it on in a dirty fish shop in downtown Nantucket.<\/span><\/p>\n

Everything had seemed to be getting better here, I made a few friends, attended ladies\u2019 meetings, and went shopping \u00a0for gowns. \u00a0It \u00a0was almost like home, and then my father died. It all happened so fast that for a while I thought I had dreamed it all. He went to work in his bank one morning, kissing me on the forehead and promising to be home for luncheon. He never did come back. I remember the butler opening the door for \u00a0one of father\u2019s co-workers and frantically \u00a0calling mother to greet him. I later found out that the man had been calling about my father. \u00a0Father had keeled over dead of a heart attack after he \u00a0received the news of an enormous financial crash that had just occurred almost everywhere, including Nantucket. \u00a0The possibility of a financial ruin had been a shock to all of the bankers, \u00a0but Father \u00a0had probably been \u00a0the first on the island to hear of \u00a0the crash, so therefore it was all the more severe. Mother had always said that he was too worried about his money, and that one day it would be the death of him. \u00a0I can hardly bear to think of how right she had been.They brought his body in later that day, the financial forecast for the island still in his grasp.<\/span><\/p>\n

As soon as she received the tragic news, \u00a0Mother had crumpled to a heap at his feet, screaming and sobbing and beating the floor with her fists until she was too exhausted to move any longer. Nobody knew what to do, all the staff just stood there, frozen with the shock of the news until I finally \u00a0pulled my mother into a standing position and gently guided her into her bedchamber. Then, unable to hold my grief in any longer,I \u00a0ran sobbing into my own room to mourn in peace. My sadness was somehow more reserved and ladylike than my mother\u2019s, although she had always been the lady of the family. I simply had cried until I had no more tears to shed, and then put away every object that was my father\u2019s, every memory that could trigger that pain again. \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0Unlike my mother, I \u00a0wanted to continue living, to \u00a0at least try to make somethings like they were before. But since then, mother has been living in a trance, flitting from room to room without any real purpose, \u00a0seldom talking and softly when she does. I once walked into her room at night to check on her, and she was curled up on the bed, clutching one of my father\u2019s old dress shirts and mumbling \u201cwhy, why, why\u201d over and over again until morning. It seemed as if our places in the family were reversed. I cared for her and gently prompted her just as she had done when I was younger. And she just lay there and let me feed and cleanse her as if she was a still a small \u00a0baby. Life was terrible as it was, and then the money ran out.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I suppose I should have known even before mother told me. A \u00a0window broke and was never fixed. \u00a0The \u00a0maids left. \u00a0But \u00a0I\u2019d honestly never thought about it before. After all, I had more things on my mind. One night during \u00a0the meager dinner I had managed to prepare, she told me that all the money in our savings had run out and that we were moving into a smaller and cheaper house that we could afford. And even worse, I, \u00a0once \u00a0a British lady, was going to work in a fish shop. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I never needed to ask her why we couldn\u2019t just write to our wealthy family and borrow some money or move back to England until we could get back on our feet. I guess that I already knew the answer. In lots of ways, foolish, impractical ways actually, I am much like my mother: \u00a0we\u2019re \u00a0both very proud. We would rather work for every scrap of food we get and live in a very non-sanitary home than beg off money from our relative We would hate if people thought that now the man of the family is gone, we are unable to support and take care of ourselves. <\/span><\/p>\n

Putting my gloved hand on the counter to admire it, I marvel at how someone could have fit a glove this size into a shell as small as this. It seems impossible! And then all of a sudden I remember that I need to sell this for the family. It would be far too cruel to allow my mother to work herself ragged to keep the house for us while I had something in the pocket of my apron that would pay for at least several month\u2019s rent. At once, I hurriedly stuff the glove back into it\u2019s shell. And grabbing my worn shawl off the hook, I run out into the street in search of the curiosity shop where I could pawn it. <\/span><\/p>\n

When I arrive, it\u2019s hard to fight back the memories that spring up. My father and I used to come here, merely for pleasure. To investigate the new treasures that had arrived. But I try to put on a neutral face, and stride purposefully toward the front desk. Then, my heart sinking, I place my gift on the counter, and except the money that is handed to me.<\/span><\/p>\n

Mrs. Dorothea Coe<\/span><\/p>\n

I know that Elizabeth doesn\u2019t like me to hover over her, but when I heard my daughter gasp with amazement, I just had to see what had been in that package. I suppose that I should have known Diana would give her something like that. So lavish and impractical. It\u2019s just like her to have expensive taste. Deep down I knew that Elizabeth would never dare keep such a gift in secret. But \u00a0I admit that for a moment I almost expected her to slip the package into her pocket and continue with her work as \u00a0if nothing had happened. When she left the shop, clearly in search of somewhere to pawn it by the expression on her face, I felt a sense of pride that she was so mature. It is something she\u2019d never have done before my beloved husband died. She was too spoiled then, too silly and frivolous. And then I did something I\u2019d never done \u00a0before: I followed her. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Peering through the window of the curiosity shop, I could see the regret she was feeling at having to give up her gift, \u00a0I felt a certain regret myself. Regret that I wasn\u2019t there for her all those months I was depressed. Regret that I hadn\u2019t been there for her grief, but that she had been there for mine. Regret that I had been no more useful than a lifeless corpse after my husband\u2019s heart attack. Guilt floods through me. So as my daughter \u00a0leaves the shop, I hide in a nearby alley, I knew one way that \u00a0I could make it up to her.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I wait until she is out of sight to sneak into the curiosity store. Heart thumping, I walk swiftly to the counter. \u201cThe shelled gloves, please, the ones the girl just brought in,\u201d I say, laying my month\u2019s wages on the desk before the shop keeper. \u201cOf course, here they are,\u201d he agrees and sweeps the money off the counter, while I reach for the walnut shells. I know that we will suffer for the loss of that money, but we\u2019ll survive, I had to make this right.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Back in the fish shop, I hurry behind the counter where my daughter stands wiping up the mess on the floor, her face filled with disappointment. I don\u2019t waste any time. Kneeling next to her on the floor, I pull her face up to mine. \u201cI brought you something,\u201d I say softly. She stares at me \u201cWhat?\u201d she asks eagerly. I pull out the walnut halves. Her face lights up. \u201cBut I pawned them!\u201d she says, confused. \u201cWe need the money.\u201d \u00a0\u201cNot as much as I need you,\u201d I answer. \u201cYou took care of me all those weeks, \u00a0it\u2019s my turn now.\u201d And for the first time in three months, I pull her to me for a hug. <\/span><\/p>\n

\n

___________________________________________________________________________<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Visit <\/span>www.nantucketchronicle.com\/ , <\/span><\/a>your free online resource for everything Nantucket. By Nantucketers, for Nantucketers.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Please excuse any annoying advertisements that may appear below this. The intrusion is on the part of the hosting site, and is in no way endorsed by the Antiques Depot.<\/em><\/p>\n

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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The second annual “Antiques Depot Writing Contest… with an Antiques Twist” was a great success. We are amazed at the many terrific stories that were submitted by our young authors. Here is this year’s winning story in the Under Twelve age group, submitted by Sophie Manning, age eleven, who was inspired by a very unusual […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":1141,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[16,1],"tags":[49,51,52,53,107,108,139,160,165,166,168],"class_list":["post-1091","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-blog","category-uncategorized","tag-antique","tag-antiques","tag-antiques-story","tag-antiques-writing-contest","tag-nantucket","tag-nantucket-antiques","tag-short-story-contest","tag-victorian","tag-writing-competition","tag-writing-contest","tag-young-collectors"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/nantucketantiquesdepot.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1091","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/nantucketantiquesdepot.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/nantucketantiquesdepot.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nantucketantiquesdepot.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nantucketantiquesdepot.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=1091"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/nantucketantiquesdepot.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1091\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nantucketantiquesdepot.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/1141"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/nantucketantiquesdepot.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=1091"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nantucketantiquesdepot.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=1091"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nantucketantiquesdepot.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=1091"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}