Fallen Castles

     There is a chapter in Little Women in which the four March sisters and Laurie tell each other the kind of life they'd like to have someday; they called them their "castles in the air," which, incidentally, is the title of that chapter. After they tell about their castles, Jo proposes that they all meet ten years hence, to see if any of their castles have been built, so to speak. Indeed, in the last chapter of the book (or of Good Wives, if you read the two-volume version), the chapter called "Harvest Time," the entire March family—Marmee, Father, sisters, husbands, children—are gathered for a picnic, and the sisters recall that day they told of their dream castles. None of them really came true, though Meg asserts that hers came the closest.

     We all have castles in the air when we're young. As a teenager, mine was to marry, build a cabin in the mountains, have twenty children, and live off the land. This was during my guitar-toting, John Denver-crooning, wildflower-picking days. A few years later, after I retired my guitar and John Denver records, the cabin changed to a large, posh London townhouse furnished with antiques; my independently wealthy husband devoted himself to my concert pianist career; we had no children, but had a live-in housekeeper and cook. I even went so far as to plan, in minute detail, my wedding—actually, two different weddings; I couldn't make up my mind which I preferred. One included a wind ensemble playing Mozart; my bridesmaids and I wore Austen-inspired empire gowns in varying shades of dusty rose and lavender; my bouquet was an assortment of lilies, and there was a choice of chicken crepes or Dover sole at a garden-themed luncheon. The other had a string ensemble playing Bach; the gowns were jewel-toned Baroque (mine in ivory, of course, with blush undertones), my bouquet was antique roses, and the reception was an evening banquet featuring prime rib or lobster. My ring was a not-too-ostentatious but out-of-the-ordinary 1.5 carat emerald-cut aquamarine in a platinum setting (I didn't like diamonds then).

     Ten years later, like the March girls, I found myself in a castle entirely different from the ones I had built in the air. But instead of lamenting the ruins, I smiled indulgently at their architects: an idealistic optimist who asked only for the bare basics, and a pretentious romantic dazzled by the elegant and glamorous. The reality, ten years after, lay somewhere in between, or, more accurately, had elements of both: I was a work horse who lived with the bare basics and had Niles Crane tastes. And now, even more years later, I find myself in a castle not my own, but content to help look after it. I've learned to leave the drafting and planning to the Master Architect. 

     Oscar Wilde famously said, "There are only two tragedies in life: one is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it." But would I deem it a tragedy that I have not the mountain cabin, nor the posh townhouse, nor husband nor children, and never had a wedding—Baroque or Regency? Of course not. We play as best we can the cards we are dealt. Or rather, we furnish and maintain as best we can the castle given us.