Dear Claudette,           

I was born under unusual circumstances. It’s suspected that my family lineage may have something to do with it.  My momma always said the delicate tango between the Sun and the Earth ruled our destiny; Daddy suspected Voodoo.  I was born in New Orleans on February 29th1904.  With the turn-of-the-century enthusiasm in the air and Daddy’s new job as a steam-boat engineer, my parents were over the moon with excitement.  Momma named me Siria Rae, Persian for glowing, bright, sun.  Always a history buff, Momma could find a story even behind the house-cat Sammy and his Egyptian origin.  A little history on the family; you see, my mother was born on the Summer Solstice, June 21st1879, and my father on the Winter Solstice, December 21st,1873. 

Doctor Laurent Dubois delivered me into this world on Saint Frances de Roux Avenue, in the infamous shadowy span of his private office.   Momma said nearly half the French Quarter refused to get within a mile of the handle-bar mustache doctor because it was rumored he practiced Voodoo in the swamps every evening.  Momma and Daddy said he was a kindhearted man who was a bit on the eccentric side but a fine doctor none-the-less.  Momma went into labor February 28th1904, at eight forty-five P.M. her childhood nursemaid, Rosa-Lee, was like family; she helped my swelled-bellied Momma waddle down the stairwell and catch the street-car to Saint Francis de Roux Avenue.   Daddy was out in Fontainebleau celebrating his promotion with the big shots at the steam-boat company, so poor Momma only had Doctor Dubois and Rosa-Lee to comfort her as I refused to enter the world until the time was right.  Momma would retell the story of my birth to me every four years on my “real” Birthday, as she cuddled me in her lap and pressed her fingers into my hand as if to say, “Listen up, this is real important.”  Momma was in so much pain, as I was her first-born, that she said she barely noticed as Doctor Dubois lit bowls of herbs around the room, and waved a newspaper-sized bunch of sage around Momma’s head.  This was not the typical home delivery room; dark yards of printed fabric were hung over the windows and candles illuminated carvings of figures placed on tables around the room.  The doctor chanted above Momma as she passed out from the pain, reviving her with a sip of potion he wore in a vial around his neck.  Momma found the strength to make the final push at two-twenty nine A.M. The kind Doctor told her, “You is one lucky lady, Mrs. Barbour.  Only one out of every 1,461 babies born is born on a Leap Day.” 

We even made the front page of the newspaper, First Leap Day Baby of the New Century. Daddy, smiling and proud, sat behind Momma and me on the front step of Doctor Dubois’ Saint Frances de Roux Avenue practice.  This is the story of my life as a Leapster, and the unusual circumstances I’ve grown to loathe and accept over time.  I am twenty-seven years old, living in Saint Louis now; there was nothing holding me back in New Orleans, as everyone I once loved is now dead and gone.  I’ve started a job as a historian at the Saint Louis Society of National Landmark and Preservation Council.  Hillary Durham, President of the Society, was so impressed with my knowledge that she hired me on the spot after meeting up at a café for my interview.  Mrs. Durham asked me, “Ms. Barbour, how on earth do you know so much? Did you spend your childhood buried nose-deep in the history section at the library?” “No, Ma’am. My mother taught me everything I know.” I responded.  Mrs. Durham then got me talking about the advent of the gas turbine and its possible demise of the Mississippi steam-boat golden era.  “Daddy always said that as long as the Mississippi was still running and the tourist were still coming the steam-boat would remain a staple in New Orleans culture,” the muddy waters of the Mississippi ran through my veins and I couldn’t stop.  “Daddy even made a trip to see the retirement of The Belle of Louisville in 1914, the oldest operating steam-boat on the western rivers.” I instantly regretted my words. “Your Daddy, huh.” Mrs. Durham chuckled.  “Oh, I’m sorry for the confusion Mrs. Durham, see my family has referred to my great-grandfather as Daddy for generations.” I tried to recover quickly.  “Hmm, must be another quirk of the Creole culture.” She said.  Thank god, saved by the notoriously odd Creoles yet again, I thought.   I returned to my apartment that evening and pulled out the photo album I’ve carried everywhere with me for so long now.  I opened the red leather cover and gazed into the eyes of those I’ve loved over the years, some long gone, others still around but who will never know of my existence.  Faces I’ve loved and cherished; babies, children, adults, cats, dogs, and birds; so many faces, so many stories. 

Only five other people on this earth have known who I really am; only one is still living today.  Momma, Daddy, and Rosa-Lee, of course, because they spent nearly every day since my birth with me watching me grow, watching me stay the same, but they are gone now, I carry their love and lessons about life with me everywhere.  The other two, Doctor Dubois, and Magnus Scott Wilhelm, my dear first husband and one true love; only one of these two men is still living.  I’ve strolled through my life on auto-pilot for awhile now.  The pain of losing everyone and everything you once knew and loved is enough to make some people consider ending their own life.  I admit I’ve come close to the edge before; while living in Chicago awhile back I intentionally put myself in the line of danger many times.  Too cowardly to take my own life, I believed this to be my only option.  Something or someone always intervened, though, right at the moment before something truly horrific was about to happen to me.  Whether it be in a dark alley, on the edge of a high-rise, on a bridge, railroad, something always prevented me from getting what I thought I wanted.  Now I realize that my time here on earth has only just begun; at twenty-seven I have only just started my journey, a journey that I felt before should have been snuffed out many years back. 

Magnus and I were married in Daddy and Momma’s beautiful backyard during a time of free spiritedness, love, and flowers.  I was eighteen, Magnus ten years my senior.  We met at university; he was stunned that at my age I was working as an adjunct professor already and pursuing my doctorate.  Magnus was on campus to protest the Vietnam War. Vice-President of the Loyola University chapter of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, he was a man on a mission.  I spotted Magnus handing out flowers on campus, as I was exiting my History of the Mississippi Steam-boat Evolution course. His unkempt appearance was frightening to me at first; What on earth is wrong with these people? Where I’m from you don’t want to look like a vagabond, I thought, as he approached me with a toothy smile and outstretched arm, offering me the brightest of his daffodils.  

“A flower for peace and solidarity sister, why don’t you join me at the sit-in tonight?”  I was taken aback by his forwardness, I can remember a time when men would go to a young woman’s parents for permission to court.  “I beg your pardon?” A sudden thrill of spontaneous desire shot a wave from my head to my toes.  “We need support, especially from a beauty like yourself.” He continued in that smooth lullaby Creole voice.  “I, I guess. I am free this evening.” I managed to utter, caught off guard.  “Great, do you live on campus?” he asked.  “No, I live on Saint Frances de Roux.” I said.  “That’s not far.  I’ll catch the bus and we can go together.  The sit-in is on the steps of the Judicial Building, the suckers won’t let us inside after closing hours so we’re pulling an all-nighter. The plan is to line up in front of the entrance so in the morning the suckers can’t get in.” he pressed on.  I couldn’t help but to admire his enthusiasm, as he explained his objections to the war, and how as V.P. of some hippie extremist club he was going to convince the state of Louisiana to write up an official statement to the White House declaring a withdraw of all Louisiana born soldiers from the war.  “Ok, don’t keep me waiting Mister…?” I was starting to feed off of his exuberance now.  “Oh yeah, promise not to laugh because it sure isn’t no John, Paul, or George kinda name.” he chuckled out.  “I would never!” I responded in mock offence.  “The names Magnus Scott Wilhelm, pleasure to meet you.” He said, stroking his overgrown bird’s nest of a beard.  “Siria Rae Barbour, kindly noted.” I grinned. 

We spent the evening, and wee hours of the morning talking about Loyola, our friends, and family.  I told him I was orphaned long ago when he asked about Momma and Daddy, which held a very different meaning for him than me.  I had experienced many years to make peace with their deaths, and learned to accept the hands of time.  Magnus on the other hand viewed my loss with a heavy heart, detrimental to my development as a young adult. He made it a habit to bring me home to his parents every weekend so I could experience the love of a family.  Little did he know my “young adult” development had sailed through this vessel many moons ago.  We married after graduate school, bought a little row house on Saint Charles Boulevard and spent many cherished years together.  Our love produced two beautiful children, who grew and developed at a perfectly normal rate, I couldn’t have been happier.

 I left him seventeen years later when I knew I was pressing my luck; I later learned he died of a heart attack only two year later.  Decades of forgery and cover-ups had prepared me for this day, I had been dreading for so long.  I still shutter at the thought of Magnus reading the morning paper, expecting my return from a weekend bed and breakfast get-away, Car Plummets into the Mississippi, Woman Driver Rests in a Watery Grave. I’ve spent most of my life remembering those I’ve loved through pictures and my journals.  Rosa-Lee started recording the comings and goings of New Orleans for me, and when I was able to suggested I keep a journal because the passage of time was a little bit different for me, and she didn’t want me to forget who I was and where I’d come from. 

  This is not the life I asked for, or the one I expected.  Living such an extended life sounds great to the average person, until you must deal with the heartbreak of watching those you love fall ill and die.  The hands of time are brutal, bringing disease and decay.  I have been forced to lie to almost everyone around me about my true identity, leaving husbands, children, friends, and careers behind to shelter them from a truth they would never believe.  I am not a heartless woman; I have watched those I love from a safe distance as they age well beyond me.  Those husbands, children, and friends I have brought into my life out of greed over the years still receive anonymous gifts of monetary support from me.  As I have spent decades upon decades working and saving to ensure a better life for those who have brought joy to mine.  You may say I am a selfish woman for bringing others into my life for my own comfort and joy, but I have learned a great deal about human interaction over the years and have given up on long-term companionship, aside from one old soul I can’t seem to shake from my life.

March 5th1905, was the day Rosa-Lee started my journal; The Barbour baby should be starting to walk now and she look like she nearly just came outta the Misses a few minutes ago! All pink and tiny, can’t hold her head up and drinks nothing but milk that I gotta buy by the bulk from the farmers market year round.  She look nothing like her Momma, Lord we been begging Mr. Barbour to let us take her to the doctor but he gets all funny acting like we can’t take the child out of the house.

March 7th 1905: They gone and done it, took that child to see Doctor Dubois on Saint Frances de Roux all wrapped up like a Christmas present in her blankets. I scurried behind Mrs. Barbour carrying the milk bottles. That fool doctor took one look at Siria Rae lit a bowl of some of that voodoo magic, put his hands on her head and started laughing! Like he was real happy this child not growing! He looked right at Mrs. Barbour and said, “I told you, you is one lucky lady Mrs. Barbour.” The doctor said he’d explain it all to em’ but I had to leave the room because this was family business and the fewer people who knew the better.  Mrs. Barbour refused and said, “Rosa-Lee will stay, she’s family, besides she’s been with the child every day since she arrived on this earth.”

Momma started adding to the journals over the years too, a delicate mixture between Momma’s looping script and Rosa-Lee’s square chicken scratch grace the pages of the journals I treasure. February 29th 1916: Today is your third Birthday Siria Rae, your father and I am so proud of you. With Doctor Dubois help we now understand what a challenge today must be for you. Your exterior is that of a three year old, your mind that of a twelve year old.  Rosa-Lee and I promise to record your life for you until you are able to on your own, if you wish that is. We image you will have the dexterity sometime around 1928, that sounds a world away to you doesn’t it? I should be a grandmother by the time my own daughter can write her own name. I am so sorry for this condition your father and I have bestowed upon you. If we had only known. I am not mourning your existence by any means Siria Rae; I never want you to think this. I am mourning the experiences you will be denied because your father and I are not like you. We will be long gone by the time you begin your journey into this world as a functioning human being. This revelation has caused a great deal of sleepless nights for your father and I, this is why today on your third Birthday we are naming Doctor Dubois your guardian. He has trusted us with the secret of his identity, therefore we trust him to provide care and guidance to you when we no longer can. You will forever hold my heart in your tiny hands.

Love your mother,

Claudette I. Barbour

Daddy passed away March 20th1936, the first day of spring, on that beloved steam-boat he found so much joy in.  Momma followed twelve years later on September 22nd1948, the first day of autumn, peacefully while needle-pointing a hankie in the sunroom.  The coincidence of their birth and death dates was yet another prediction Momma had made years ago, “The delicate tango between the Sun and the Earth rule our destiny.” I had celebrated seventeen Birthdays when I went to live with Doctor Dubois on Saint Frances de Roux.  He has always been like an uncle to me, my parents frequently visited him and we even took vacations together to ensure my comfort with the handle bar mustache doctor.   He explained the importance of keeping our secret from the world by sharing his life lessons with me.   “Trust no one with the secret of yo’ gift young lady,” he said with piercing eyes directed at mine.  “I made the mistake once…an’ it landed me in a decade long stint as a lab rat.” He diverted his gaze from me as if trying to press back a painful memory.

It was Doctor Dubois who suggested I move from New Orleans, the only home I had ever known.  He taught me the means of survival for our kind.  “Don’t get too familiar with folks, if they study yo’ face too hard they gonna know yo’ aint aged but a day since they met ya’.” Words of wisdom from an old pro.  He has helped me cope with the fact that my mind will always be years ahead of my body.  He taught me to appreciate the short amount of time we are granted with those we love, to live without anger and hate, for this gift or curse we have been handed is rare.  So I began my journey hopping from city to city, working odd jobs, attending numerous universities for a variety of disciplines.  We meet up every several years; the doctor based his headquarters out of New Orleans, aiding the ill by day, searching for those like us, old souls through the night. 

Today I keep to myself; it is exhausting to stay current with all the latest changes in society.  I have witnessed so much progression, so much pain, and so many deaths.  It is 2012, a world I would have never imagined living in, a world so different from the one I was born into.  One in every 1,461, that is the chance one has to be born on a Leap Day, Doctor Dubois and myself are still searching for the chances of being born like us, slipping through the cracks of time.  That delicate tango between the Sun and the Earth Momma talked about, producing a child born on a day that only comes around once every four years. Some may say Voodoo, like Daddy; others may say fate.  I guess we still have plenty of time to find out.  Enclosed are my journals, decades of a family history you have never known until today. I know you will cherish the secret your great-grandmother created in a world as foreign as a history book to you. I have been watching you my little Leapster grand-baby.

Love your grandmother,

Siria Rae Barbour   

Leapster
By: Kara Dunford