Back in the ‘50s, many people didn’t share their thoughts or talk about feelings. Learning to express herself pushed poet Sylvia Plath to strengthen her voice and more forward in her career, author Lee_Kravetz says.
The safe holdings room at the St. Ambrose Auction House has no windows, two late-nineteenth-century oil paintings on the back wall, a small wooden table, and privacy, the most valuable item in the archive. As a master curator for the house, I introduce myself to Elton and Jay Jay, the Dyce brothers.
Elton Dyce used to own a bar on Dorchester Avenue. It went under after his divorce—his second, he says. Afterward, he joined up with his brother’s business, buying and flipping houses, many of them dilapidated and in disrepair. The ones in foreclosure are often abandoned, meaning Elton and Jay Jay are left razing rooms and hauling furniture to Dennison Consignment or selling sofas and dining room sets on eBay.
In my sweater pockets, my hands will always find a pair of cloth gloves. I pull them on before removing three college-ruled notebooks one at a time from the lockbox. Separating the notebooks, I lay them side by side on the table. The cover of the black notebook is torn and partially falling off its metal spiral. The blue cover of the second notebook is mostly intact. Written in black ink across the top of the third notebook’s green cover are the letters V and L.
I run two fingers across the V and the L drawn in heavy ink on the green cover. The pages inside are filled with handwriting, small, neat, vivid, and tender—