With a little help from a search engine on my computer I can safely say that the book I hold in my hands is older than the Statue of Liberty and the statehood of Nebraska. No big deal you say? Okay, try this. Halfway through what would turn out to be his only term in office, Abraham Lincoln might have been interested in reading this book when it first came out.
Published in 1862, The Great Rebellion; A History of the Civil War in the United States, Volume I is today 149 years old. The author, a historian by the name of J.T. Headley, died over a century ago.
Still not impressed? This book proclaims to tell the history of the origins of the Civil War, with the promise to readers that Volume II will come out "within six months after the close of the war." Let me repeat that: it's a written history of the Civil War that couldn't be completed in one volume because the author didn't yet know who was going to win the war.
Damn, now that's old.
For being as old as it is, however, this particular copy is in remarkable shape. The engraved hard cover is worn but strong, the binding solid. The 506 pages remain gilded gold and hold every word clearly and legibly. All in all it's held up pretty well for being a century and a half old.
I inherited it from my late father, himself an avid student of the Civil War. It was part of his personal library, but unfortunately I have no idea how he came to own this book. I don't know where it came from, how he found it. Nothing. It was just sitting there on a bookshelf in his basement, next to two volumes of a three-volume biography of George Washington published in 1860.And now these very books, dusted in mystery, are part of my own book collection.
That's the amazing thing about books. They last. Books can outlast the vagaries of time and technology. But don't paintings, sculptures, even furniture have the same power to endure antiquity? Indeed they do. There's just something about an old book that, to me, is a little mystical. To think that someone long gone and forgotten once held this very same book in their hands, read it and hopefully enjoyed it, is a true testament to how a writer's thoughts and ideas can outdistance mortal life itself.
Will I ever take the time to read this entire book? To be honest, probably not. But like any other book I can always read it should I choose to do so. In the mean time I will take good care of it. Then maybe years from now someone else might look at it and say, "Wow, check out this old book. I wonder who else held it in their hands?"
-end-
Monday, August 15, 2011
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Writer Wanted
"In my experience, nothing is harder for the developing writer than overcoming his [or her] anxiety that he is fooling himself and cheating or embarrassing his family and friends."
-John Gardner, novelist and literary critic
How true. In fact, I have privately faced that question many times - am I fooling myself? Am I really a writer? Okay, I'm writing these words, so in that meager context alone I do qualify. Broadening it out a bit I have written stories and articles in my time and been paid for doing it (Never enough to quit a day job, that's for damn sure.). I even wrote an unpublished novel manuscript that deserves to remain unpublished. But still…a writer? Me?
It's not like I go around telling everyone I'm a writer. And I certainly don't delude myself by thinking that people are clamoring to read every inspired word I put down. Hardly. (Though to be totally honest what writer doesn't, by the very nature of what he or she does, namely committing words to paper, secretly crave just a little immortality?)
So when does one who writes become A WRITER?
Novelist James Michener once said something to the effect that a good writer should only be published after he's written a million words. A dramatic way of saying one has to put considerable time and effort into his craft in order to call himself a writer. No argument there. I have no idea how many words I've written in my lifetime, but by that measure I'd have to start copying the dictionary cover to cover just to get up to speed. (Right now the word count on this piece stands at about 225, so let's see – 1 million divided by 225 equals – never mind.)
Like it or not, in this age of social media and the internet it doesn't require a gifted skill set to see one's words in print. Not that that's always a bad thing. There's easy access for everyone like never before. I simply choose not to define a writing vocation by including tweets and Facebook postings.
I earned a Masters Degree in Creative Writing. Does that give me honest claim to calling myself a writer? By itself I would have to say no. Just as someone who gets a degree in Philosophy shouldn't go around telling everyone they're a Philosopher by trade. Have you seen the want ads lately? Now that's a tough field to break into.
Do you have to write every day to be a writer? Probably wouldn't hurt. But I don't. Sorry, e-mails and shopping lists don't count.
Do you have to have a book out there with your name on the cover? Do you have to have a literary agent? Your own website? A thick portfolio of published articles?
Or can you just be someone who can put decent sentences together in order to get a point across, every now and then nailing it with a touch of clarity and color?
I'll go with that last one for now. So, yes, I am a writer. Really.
-John Gardner, novelist and literary critic
How true. In fact, I have privately faced that question many times - am I fooling myself? Am I really a writer? Okay, I'm writing these words, so in that meager context alone I do qualify. Broadening it out a bit I have written stories and articles in my time and been paid for doing it (Never enough to quit a day job, that's for damn sure.). I even wrote an unpublished novel manuscript that deserves to remain unpublished. But still…a writer? Me?
It's not like I go around telling everyone I'm a writer. And I certainly don't delude myself by thinking that people are clamoring to read every inspired word I put down. Hardly. (Though to be totally honest what writer doesn't, by the very nature of what he or she does, namely committing words to paper, secretly crave just a little immortality?)
So when does one who writes become A WRITER?
Novelist James Michener once said something to the effect that a good writer should only be published after he's written a million words. A dramatic way of saying one has to put considerable time and effort into his craft in order to call himself a writer. No argument there. I have no idea how many words I've written in my lifetime, but by that measure I'd have to start copying the dictionary cover to cover just to get up to speed. (Right now the word count on this piece stands at about 225, so let's see – 1 million divided by 225 equals – never mind.)
Like it or not, in this age of social media and the internet it doesn't require a gifted skill set to see one's words in print. Not that that's always a bad thing. There's easy access for everyone like never before. I simply choose not to define a writing vocation by including tweets and Facebook postings.
I earned a Masters Degree in Creative Writing. Does that give me honest claim to calling myself a writer? By itself I would have to say no. Just as someone who gets a degree in Philosophy shouldn't go around telling everyone they're a Philosopher by trade. Have you seen the want ads lately? Now that's a tough field to break into.
Do you have to write every day to be a writer? Probably wouldn't hurt. But I don't. Sorry, e-mails and shopping lists don't count.
Do you have to have a book out there with your name on the cover? Do you have to have a literary agent? Your own website? A thick portfolio of published articles?
Or can you just be someone who can put decent sentences together in order to get a point across, every now and then nailing it with a touch of clarity and color?
I'll go with that last one for now. So, yes, I am a writer. Really.
Monday, July 18, 2011
WHEN I GROW UP I WANT TO BE…
(This one isn't fiction.)
A football.
That's right. When I grow up I want to be a football. It says so right there in black and white, in the shaky hand of a third-grade student who happened to be me a long time ago. It's part of an irreplaceable chronicle called "My School Years," in which are archived the class pictures, report cards and various statistics of my grade school years. And there on the back page of the third-grade section I declared to the world what it was I wanted to be when I grow up. Not a fireman. Not a policeman. Not even a cowboy, astronaut or soldier. Nope. I marked the box with the blank line and wrote down the word 'football' in fat, uneven letters.
Now it doesn't take a genius or child psychologist to figure out that what I was really trying to say back then was I wanted to be a football player. I simply ran out of room to fit in the other key word. (God, I hope that really was what happened.) Nothing unusual about a young boy dreaming of being a football star. All I needed to work on was my throwing arm and/or my penmanship a little more.
Anyway, I came across this forgotten footnote recently and it got me to thinking: Why is it that some people know early on what they want to do with their life – or at least have a pretty good idea, while others struggle for years to find their 'calling'? Indeed many never find it at all. What triggers that light bulb to turn on for some and not for others? Is it Divine Intervention? Destiny? The way our particular molecules of DNA happen to wrap around each other? Or something more mundane like good education or plain old good luck? I know hard work fits in there somewhere, too, but doesn't that come after the fact?
That's not to say that anyone has an easier road just because they know what they want to do. We all have our struggles, our highs and lows, our dead ends. No free passes when it comes to that. Nor should there be. And certainly not everyone needs that 'aha' moment in order to lead a productive and fulfilling life. It just stands to reason that much like someone taking a long vacation trip, those who know ahead of time where they want to go have an advantage over those who just get in the car and start driving.
The truth is I'm still looking for some road signs.
I write these words not as a former football star, but rather as a man of steadily growing years who is still learning, still searching, still wondering: What do I want to be when I grow up? And again I am trusting that my vision can reach a little higher than wanting to be a fully inflated genuine leather pigskin.
By the way, according to my fourth-grade entry my focus had shifted to wanting to be a scientist. Yeah, that one turned out real good, too.
A football.
That's right. When I grow up I want to be a football. It says so right there in black and white, in the shaky hand of a third-grade student who happened to be me a long time ago. It's part of an irreplaceable chronicle called "My School Years," in which are archived the class pictures, report cards and various statistics of my grade school years. And there on the back page of the third-grade section I declared to the world what it was I wanted to be when I grow up. Not a fireman. Not a policeman. Not even a cowboy, astronaut or soldier. Nope. I marked the box with the blank line and wrote down the word 'football' in fat, uneven letters.
Now it doesn't take a genius or child psychologist to figure out that what I was really trying to say back then was I wanted to be a football player. I simply ran out of room to fit in the other key word. (God, I hope that really was what happened.) Nothing unusual about a young boy dreaming of being a football star. All I needed to work on was my throwing arm and/or my penmanship a little more.
Anyway, I came across this forgotten footnote recently and it got me to thinking: Why is it that some people know early on what they want to do with their life – or at least have a pretty good idea, while others struggle for years to find their 'calling'? Indeed many never find it at all. What triggers that light bulb to turn on for some and not for others? Is it Divine Intervention? Destiny? The way our particular molecules of DNA happen to wrap around each other? Or something more mundane like good education or plain old good luck? I know hard work fits in there somewhere, too, but doesn't that come after the fact?
That's not to say that anyone has an easier road just because they know what they want to do. We all have our struggles, our highs and lows, our dead ends. No free passes when it comes to that. Nor should there be. And certainly not everyone needs that 'aha' moment in order to lead a productive and fulfilling life. It just stands to reason that much like someone taking a long vacation trip, those who know ahead of time where they want to go have an advantage over those who just get in the car and start driving.
The truth is I'm still looking for some road signs.
I write these words not as a former football star, but rather as a man of steadily growing years who is still learning, still searching, still wondering: What do I want to be when I grow up? And again I am trusting that my vision can reach a little higher than wanting to be a fully inflated genuine leather pigskin.
By the way, according to my fourth-grade entry my focus had shifted to wanting to be a scientist. Yeah, that one turned out real good, too.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
A Resting Place
In the end, I guess it all comes down to how you look at things. First time I laid eyes on that place the words wisped out of my mouth without my even thinking.
"What the hell?"
It was the last thing I expected to find hiking through lush green woods near my late brother's land, miles away from the nearest town or church. The closest landmark was a dirt road that didn't even have a name. I had walked through these woods with my brother before, but this was my first time back since…well, since he was gone. Somewhere along the line I must have taken a wrong turn. No signs gave warning, no fences or paths marked the spot. Set in a small clearing it had all the looks of a place lost in time and not meant to be found again.
Yet there I was, looking at a gathering of tombstones.
Seven in all. Choked off from the rest of the world by tall trees and untamed grass. Not one of them stood straight. Some were cracked, one cleanly broken in two.
The dirty white slabs appeared at first glance to have no markings on them. Though it was a late summer afternoon with not a cloud in the sky, the light and warmth of that
God-given day hardly seemed to reach in here. Maybe that explained the slightest of chills that crawled up the back of my neck like an evil whisper as I stared at those stones. What were these things doing out here?
Right away I caught a whiff of something sour in the air. Maybe a dead rabbit. Maybe some wild mustard weed growing nearby. Whatever. What struck me next was the noise – there was none. Was it just my imagination or was there nothing of what you'd expect to hear in the woods this time of year? No birds or insects buzzing, no rustling of leaves in the trees. All replaced by a quiet that went from subtle to eerie in the space of two or three hushed breaths. The spell was soon broken by something over to my right. Moving down there in the—
Son of a bitch.
A long thin snake, black as oil with no markings, slid its way slowly over the broken stone and a bare spot of ground. I watched it stop for a moment, lift its head up briefly, then continue on and disappear in the tall grass.
Of all the crazy things…a snake?
My body tingled as though I'd just touched a live wire. I held my breath waiting to see if it might reappear. When finally I felt it safe enough I did move carefully, treading as lightly as I could over the hard ground toward the nearest markers. The chiseled letters on the tombstones were speckled with moss and so weather-worn as to be almost invisible unless you were right on top of them.
Mathias Petersen Hans Petersen
Fodt 27 Sept 1862 Fodt 27 Sept 1862
Dodt 12 April 1869 Dodt 13 April 1869
Fodt? Dodt? What the hell kind of old world language was that? Then those dates. Eighteen Sixty-nine.
Damn.
Only with a second look did I catch other peculiarities. Twins – born on the same day and dying at a tragically young age. Buried one day apart.
A tepid breeze blew out of the north, and I might have been relieved to feel it were it not for something else, a strange noise it carried. It was faint and seemed to swirl in the wind, but for a few seconds I swore I heard it: horse's hooves. It could have been coming from any direction, or none at all. I'd heard tell of an Amish settlement a few miles west of here, so the idea of a horse and carriage traveling down the nearby road wasn't so far-fetched. No sooner had I begun to wrap my thoughts around that idea than the breeze died down and any sound of a trotting horse, if ever it was really there, vanished as well.
Silence returned.
I shook my head and stepped toward the next two tombstones. Same last name. Same date of death.
Johanna Petersen Engebret Petersen
Fodt 10 June 1849 Fodt 6 Mar 1846
Dodt 19 April 1869 Dodt 19 April 1869
I looked over at the next two.
Albert Skaarsgard Greta Halvorsen
Fodt 25 June 1848 Fodt 17 Oct 1847
Dodt 19 April 1869 Dodt 19 April 1869
The final marker, the broken one, lay face down in the dirt, and visions of that snake crawling over it moments earlier kept me from reaching down and lifting it up to read the name inscribed.
It struck me that I was standing on hallowed ground. A final resting place for seven souls long ago departed. Just because it didn't look like your typical manicured cemetery didn't make it any less a final resting place. But why then was there not so much as a single crucifix or peaceful symbol carved anywhere in this place? Why not even a word of grace. No hint of anything holy here. And then there was that god-awful snake, coiling back and forth over the ground like some devilish sentry guarding its post. Add it all up and, well, what if this place was different? What if this place was somehow unnatural and these people were meant to be forgotten? What if—?
Oh, for Christ sake, get a hold of yourself.
Obviously someone thought enough to make these headstones; maybe that was how they did it back then. Just names and dates. No big deal.
I stared again at the names of the twins. Then it came to me – the image of two grinning boys wearing scruffy trousers, dirty cotton shirts and wide-brimmed hats. These immigrants to a new land. Happy despite the hardships and too young to know any better. Walking down a dirt road or through a tall cornfield on a hot summer day, laughing and playing the way all kids should. That quaint little snapshot lingered for a moment until I started thinking about what could have happened to them – to all of them – to make them end up here.
I heard something: a whispered, chattering sound coming from beyond the trees. I looked all around me but saw nothing. A few seconds went by before I heard it again – this time longer and louder. That's when I realized what I was hearing wasn't a bird, it wasn't an animal, and it sure as hell wasn't the wind. It was the unmistakable sound of children giggling.
My heart was pounding in my chest like a tiny fist as I now had the inescapable feeling I was being watched. My mind said no, that's not possible, but the hot tingling on my skin said otherwise. I wasn't alone. Then something fell into the grass near my feet. An acorn maybe, or a small pebble. Almost like it was being thrown at me.
What the fuck?
"Who's there?"
The laughing stopped.
"Come on, who's there?"
Another object skipped on the ground and bounced off one of the headstones. I didn't have to wait long before it started up again. This time it was coming from those trees over to my right. Children laughing. Swear to God.
I should have run while I had the chance.
"You looking for something?"
I jumped when I heard his voice. I didn't know who he was or how he got there. Suddenly he was just there, standing behind me at the edge of the clearing, a thin old man with stringy white hair and an unruly beard.
I put a hand to my chest and waited for my breath to come back. "Jesus Christ."
As soon as I said that I thought I caught an angry glint flash in his eyes. Like fire. Then it passed just as quickly.
The bib overalls and red plaid shirt were as smooth and worn down as an old saddle. And cradled in his right arm, pointed to the ground but menacing nonetheless, was a shotgun. The damn thing looked positively antique.
"This is private land," he said calmly, like so many around here a man of few words. A trace of Scandinavian accent hung in his voice.
I thought about going up and offering my hand, introducing myself, but the unblinking stare – not to mention the gun at his side – held me back.
"I'm sorry if…I was just hiking through the woods. My brother's place is…was over that way. Guess I got lost."
"You best get on back then."
"Wait a minute. Hold on. You're the owner here?"
His answer was slow in coming. "You might say that."
"So what do you know about these headstones?"
"Why?"
"No reason, just curious. My brother never said anything to me about a cemetery back here."
"Don't figure many folks knew about it."
"How come?"
"Happened a long time ago."
Tell me, damn it.
"Please, I'd like to hear about it."
Another long pause before he answered. "Story is a family of Norwegian homesteaders passed through this way once, looking for good farm land to set up stakes. God-fearing people. Never caused nobody trouble. But then the whooping cough come around and the two boys took sick to it. Weren't no doctors or nobody to help. The young ones died real fast. Father had to dig the graves and lay them down with his own two hands. After that he got tore up with anger. Cursed God for taking his boys."
His bony hands tightened around that shotgun.
"Some say he lost his mind. Others say he made a pact with the devil himself to get his boys back. Believe what you will. But one night while the rest of the family was sleeping he loaded up his gun and put the barrel to each and every one. Saved himself for last."
The old man let out a sigh and lowered his head. "Does terrible things to a man when he has to bury his only two sons."
Two giggling little boys in wide-brimmed hats?
"So who buried them here? I mean, if the whole family was dead..."
He looked up but all he did was shrug his shoulders. His sad gray eyes wouldn't leave me alone as we stood facing each other, me in the sun, he in the shade. Finally I had to look away.
"That's quite a story," was all I could think to say.
The old man stood there, saying nothing, doing nothing. That unnerved me as much as that shotgun he was holding. Yet at the same time I could almost feel the hurt leaking out from that old man. A feeling to which I could relate.
"My brother he…uh…owned land back there," I said, pointing quickly over my shoulder. "Maybe you knew him – Josh Barton?"
The man shook his head. "I'm too old. Don't much know people around here no more."
"Well, he…he passed away two months ago. Heart attack. Kind of thing you never see it coming. But then, who does?"
"You miss him?"
What the hell kind of question…?
"Sure I do. I mean, yeah. In fact, it's still hard to believe he's gone."
"You got family?" he asked.
The question jolted me a little. "I'm divorced. Got a four year-old girl. Light of my life."
"Good. A man's gotta stay close to family. Don't you worry, won't be long you'll see your brother again."
What in the world is this guy talking about?
Next thing I know he's lifting the gun barrel a little higher, his right hand sliding toward the trigger.
"Now you ought not be here," he said softly.
"Look, I don't know what you're talking about. What is it about this place, anyway?"
"Said it yourself, you only found it 'cause you was lost. Be on your way. You don't belong here."
"Who are you?"
He nodded toward the ground behind me and I followed his gaze to the tombstones. Right away I focused on the broken one lying facedown in the dirt. The one name I hadn't read.
"I'm what you might call the caretaker," he said. "See to it nobody disturbs these graves."
Caretaker? Damn, either this guy's crazy or—
Just then my mouth went dry and a chill ran straight through me.
"That's what you're doing here – staying close to them?"
He hesitated for a second, then nodded.
"You mean all this time, all these years—"
"Each of us got burdens to carry. Some heavier than others is all."
My God, this can't be happening.
I stepped back quickly, almost stumbling over my own feet.
When he spoke next his voice seemed to carry an echo, like it was coming from deep inside a tunnel. "Like I said, this here is private land and you're trespassing. Now you best get going."
All at once a gentle breeze began to blow and I could hear the trees and bushes rustling. That was enough for me. Too stunned to say or do anything else, I kept back-peddling. After taking one last look into his eyes I turned around and started walking away. Slowly at first, then faster and faster until I was running like a scared little kid. When finally I did find my way back to the familiar trail I was sweating and nearly out of breath, though I didn't stop. Not until I was safely across the property line. Back where I belonged.
Only then did I look back at those lush green woods, now alive with birds. And the faintest sound of children giggling.
-end-
"What the hell?"
It was the last thing I expected to find hiking through lush green woods near my late brother's land, miles away from the nearest town or church. The closest landmark was a dirt road that didn't even have a name. I had walked through these woods with my brother before, but this was my first time back since…well, since he was gone. Somewhere along the line I must have taken a wrong turn. No signs gave warning, no fences or paths marked the spot. Set in a small clearing it had all the looks of a place lost in time and not meant to be found again.
Yet there I was, looking at a gathering of tombstones.
Seven in all. Choked off from the rest of the world by tall trees and untamed grass. Not one of them stood straight. Some were cracked, one cleanly broken in two.
The dirty white slabs appeared at first glance to have no markings on them. Though it was a late summer afternoon with not a cloud in the sky, the light and warmth of that
God-given day hardly seemed to reach in here. Maybe that explained the slightest of chills that crawled up the back of my neck like an evil whisper as I stared at those stones. What were these things doing out here?
Right away I caught a whiff of something sour in the air. Maybe a dead rabbit. Maybe some wild mustard weed growing nearby. Whatever. What struck me next was the noise – there was none. Was it just my imagination or was there nothing of what you'd expect to hear in the woods this time of year? No birds or insects buzzing, no rustling of leaves in the trees. All replaced by a quiet that went from subtle to eerie in the space of two or three hushed breaths. The spell was soon broken by something over to my right. Moving down there in the—
Son of a bitch.
A long thin snake, black as oil with no markings, slid its way slowly over the broken stone and a bare spot of ground. I watched it stop for a moment, lift its head up briefly, then continue on and disappear in the tall grass.
Of all the crazy things…a snake?
My body tingled as though I'd just touched a live wire. I held my breath waiting to see if it might reappear. When finally I felt it safe enough I did move carefully, treading as lightly as I could over the hard ground toward the nearest markers. The chiseled letters on the tombstones were speckled with moss and so weather-worn as to be almost invisible unless you were right on top of them.
Mathias Petersen Hans Petersen
Fodt 27 Sept 1862 Fodt 27 Sept 1862
Dodt 12 April 1869 Dodt 13 April 1869
Fodt? Dodt? What the hell kind of old world language was that? Then those dates. Eighteen Sixty-nine.
Damn.
Only with a second look did I catch other peculiarities. Twins – born on the same day and dying at a tragically young age. Buried one day apart.
A tepid breeze blew out of the north, and I might have been relieved to feel it were it not for something else, a strange noise it carried. It was faint and seemed to swirl in the wind, but for a few seconds I swore I heard it: horse's hooves. It could have been coming from any direction, or none at all. I'd heard tell of an Amish settlement a few miles west of here, so the idea of a horse and carriage traveling down the nearby road wasn't so far-fetched. No sooner had I begun to wrap my thoughts around that idea than the breeze died down and any sound of a trotting horse, if ever it was really there, vanished as well.
Silence returned.
I shook my head and stepped toward the next two tombstones. Same last name. Same date of death.
Johanna Petersen Engebret Petersen
Fodt 10 June 1849 Fodt 6 Mar 1846
Dodt 19 April 1869 Dodt 19 April 1869
I looked over at the next two.
Albert Skaarsgard Greta Halvorsen
Fodt 25 June 1848 Fodt 17 Oct 1847
Dodt 19 April 1869 Dodt 19 April 1869
The final marker, the broken one, lay face down in the dirt, and visions of that snake crawling over it moments earlier kept me from reaching down and lifting it up to read the name inscribed.
It struck me that I was standing on hallowed ground. A final resting place for seven souls long ago departed. Just because it didn't look like your typical manicured cemetery didn't make it any less a final resting place. But why then was there not so much as a single crucifix or peaceful symbol carved anywhere in this place? Why not even a word of grace. No hint of anything holy here. And then there was that god-awful snake, coiling back and forth over the ground like some devilish sentry guarding its post. Add it all up and, well, what if this place was different? What if this place was somehow unnatural and these people were meant to be forgotten? What if—?
Oh, for Christ sake, get a hold of yourself.
Obviously someone thought enough to make these headstones; maybe that was how they did it back then. Just names and dates. No big deal.
I stared again at the names of the twins. Then it came to me – the image of two grinning boys wearing scruffy trousers, dirty cotton shirts and wide-brimmed hats. These immigrants to a new land. Happy despite the hardships and too young to know any better. Walking down a dirt road or through a tall cornfield on a hot summer day, laughing and playing the way all kids should. That quaint little snapshot lingered for a moment until I started thinking about what could have happened to them – to all of them – to make them end up here.
I heard something: a whispered, chattering sound coming from beyond the trees. I looked all around me but saw nothing. A few seconds went by before I heard it again – this time longer and louder. That's when I realized what I was hearing wasn't a bird, it wasn't an animal, and it sure as hell wasn't the wind. It was the unmistakable sound of children giggling.
My heart was pounding in my chest like a tiny fist as I now had the inescapable feeling I was being watched. My mind said no, that's not possible, but the hot tingling on my skin said otherwise. I wasn't alone. Then something fell into the grass near my feet. An acorn maybe, or a small pebble. Almost like it was being thrown at me.
What the fuck?
"Who's there?"
The laughing stopped.
"Come on, who's there?"
Another object skipped on the ground and bounced off one of the headstones. I didn't have to wait long before it started up again. This time it was coming from those trees over to my right. Children laughing. Swear to God.
I should have run while I had the chance.
"You looking for something?"
I jumped when I heard his voice. I didn't know who he was or how he got there. Suddenly he was just there, standing behind me at the edge of the clearing, a thin old man with stringy white hair and an unruly beard.
I put a hand to my chest and waited for my breath to come back. "Jesus Christ."
As soon as I said that I thought I caught an angry glint flash in his eyes. Like fire. Then it passed just as quickly.
The bib overalls and red plaid shirt were as smooth and worn down as an old saddle. And cradled in his right arm, pointed to the ground but menacing nonetheless, was a shotgun. The damn thing looked positively antique.
"This is private land," he said calmly, like so many around here a man of few words. A trace of Scandinavian accent hung in his voice.
I thought about going up and offering my hand, introducing myself, but the unblinking stare – not to mention the gun at his side – held me back.
"I'm sorry if…I was just hiking through the woods. My brother's place is…was over that way. Guess I got lost."
"You best get on back then."
"Wait a minute. Hold on. You're the owner here?"
His answer was slow in coming. "You might say that."
"So what do you know about these headstones?"
"Why?"
"No reason, just curious. My brother never said anything to me about a cemetery back here."
"Don't figure many folks knew about it."
"How come?"
"Happened a long time ago."
Tell me, damn it.
"Please, I'd like to hear about it."
Another long pause before he answered. "Story is a family of Norwegian homesteaders passed through this way once, looking for good farm land to set up stakes. God-fearing people. Never caused nobody trouble. But then the whooping cough come around and the two boys took sick to it. Weren't no doctors or nobody to help. The young ones died real fast. Father had to dig the graves and lay them down with his own two hands. After that he got tore up with anger. Cursed God for taking his boys."
His bony hands tightened around that shotgun.
"Some say he lost his mind. Others say he made a pact with the devil himself to get his boys back. Believe what you will. But one night while the rest of the family was sleeping he loaded up his gun and put the barrel to each and every one. Saved himself for last."
The old man let out a sigh and lowered his head. "Does terrible things to a man when he has to bury his only two sons."
Two giggling little boys in wide-brimmed hats?
"So who buried them here? I mean, if the whole family was dead..."
He looked up but all he did was shrug his shoulders. His sad gray eyes wouldn't leave me alone as we stood facing each other, me in the sun, he in the shade. Finally I had to look away.
"That's quite a story," was all I could think to say.
The old man stood there, saying nothing, doing nothing. That unnerved me as much as that shotgun he was holding. Yet at the same time I could almost feel the hurt leaking out from that old man. A feeling to which I could relate.
"My brother he…uh…owned land back there," I said, pointing quickly over my shoulder. "Maybe you knew him – Josh Barton?"
The man shook his head. "I'm too old. Don't much know people around here no more."
"Well, he…he passed away two months ago. Heart attack. Kind of thing you never see it coming. But then, who does?"
"You miss him?"
What the hell kind of question…?
"Sure I do. I mean, yeah. In fact, it's still hard to believe he's gone."
"You got family?" he asked.
The question jolted me a little. "I'm divorced. Got a four year-old girl. Light of my life."
"Good. A man's gotta stay close to family. Don't you worry, won't be long you'll see your brother again."
What in the world is this guy talking about?
Next thing I know he's lifting the gun barrel a little higher, his right hand sliding toward the trigger.
"Now you ought not be here," he said softly.
"Look, I don't know what you're talking about. What is it about this place, anyway?"
"Said it yourself, you only found it 'cause you was lost. Be on your way. You don't belong here."
"Who are you?"
He nodded toward the ground behind me and I followed his gaze to the tombstones. Right away I focused on the broken one lying facedown in the dirt. The one name I hadn't read.
"I'm what you might call the caretaker," he said. "See to it nobody disturbs these graves."
Caretaker? Damn, either this guy's crazy or—
Just then my mouth went dry and a chill ran straight through me.
"That's what you're doing here – staying close to them?"
He hesitated for a second, then nodded.
"You mean all this time, all these years—"
"Each of us got burdens to carry. Some heavier than others is all."
My God, this can't be happening.
I stepped back quickly, almost stumbling over my own feet.
When he spoke next his voice seemed to carry an echo, like it was coming from deep inside a tunnel. "Like I said, this here is private land and you're trespassing. Now you best get going."
All at once a gentle breeze began to blow and I could hear the trees and bushes rustling. That was enough for me. Too stunned to say or do anything else, I kept back-peddling. After taking one last look into his eyes I turned around and started walking away. Slowly at first, then faster and faster until I was running like a scared little kid. When finally I did find my way back to the familiar trail I was sweating and nearly out of breath, though I didn't stop. Not until I was safely across the property line. Back where I belonged.
Only then did I look back at those lush green woods, now alive with birds. And the faintest sound of children giggling.
-end-
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
A Few More Good Ones
"Sir, if you were my husband I would poison your drink."
- Lady Astor to Winston Churchill
"Madam, if you were my wife I would drink it."
- his reply
"When I read about the evils of drinking I gave up reading."
- Henny Youngman
"My wife and I were happy for twenty years. Then we met."
- Rodney Dangerfield
"The problem with the world is that everyone is a few drinks behind."
-Humphrey Bogart
"I had some words with my wife, and she had some paragraphs with me."
-Anonymous
"Some people ask for the secret of our long marriage. We take time to go to a restaurant two times a week. A little candlelight, dinner, soft music and dancing. She goes Tuesdays, I go Fridays."
-Henny Youngman
And finally...
This exchange between Groucho Marx and a female contestant on his television show You Bet Your Life:
Groucho: "You have twenty-two children! Why do you have so many children? That's a big responsibility and a big burden."
Woman: "Well, because I love children, and I think that's our purpose here on earth, and I love my husband."
Groucho: "I love my cigar too, but I take it out of my mouth once in a while."
- Lady Astor to Winston Churchill
"Madam, if you were my wife I would drink it."
- his reply
"When I read about the evils of drinking I gave up reading."
- Henny Youngman
"My wife and I were happy for twenty years. Then we met."
- Rodney Dangerfield
"The problem with the world is that everyone is a few drinks behind."
-Humphrey Bogart
"I had some words with my wife, and she had some paragraphs with me."
-Anonymous
"Some people ask for the secret of our long marriage. We take time to go to a restaurant two times a week. A little candlelight, dinner, soft music and dancing. She goes Tuesdays, I go Fridays."
-Henny Youngman
And finally...
This exchange between Groucho Marx and a female contestant on his television show You Bet Your Life:
Groucho: "You have twenty-two children! Why do you have so many children? That's a big responsibility and a big burden."
Woman: "Well, because I love children, and I think that's our purpose here on earth, and I love my husband."
Groucho: "I love my cigar too, but I take it out of my mouth once in a while."
Monday, June 20, 2011
A Faraway Fable
And now for something completely different...
Picture if you will a tropical island, lost and forgotten in time as it lies alone, surrounded by an endless reach of blue-green ocean. Without burden or benefit of civilized advance the island remains as it has for centuries, uncharted and unknown. From horizon to horizon the sun arcs across the sky every day, blazing relentlessly.
Once removed from the power and surf of the ocean, the beach of sparkling white sand gives way to plants, vines and trees of every shape and size that together hold the sun's heat and refuse to let it go. In there the place comes alive with the shrieks and chirps of birds and other creatures heard but not seen.
Running through the middle of that jungle is a small river. Its brown, silty water moves slowly, but at least it moves. The fetid air all around does not. At a bend in the river is a sandy bank, and it is there every day that an old crocodile lays in the sun like a fallen log. With weathered skin and crooked white spikes jutting out of its mouth he shows his age. Robbed of his speed and quickness by uncounted years gone by, he is content now to live out his time in peace, knowing full well that on this island he has no challenge.
One day everything changes when a young sailor is washed ashore, the sole survivor of a shipwreck on a reef miles away. Tumbling in on wave after wave he collapses on the soft warm sand, gasping and grateful to heaven that his life has been spared. He rests his head on the sand and his parched lips whisper, "I'm alive," before he closes his eyes and sleeps.
In the days that follow he struggles but learns to survive on his own: finding bits of food, harnessing fire, building a shelter. He starts to regain his strength. As the days stretch on and it becomes clear that he is the only human soul on this island his thoughts grow bold. Fear and sadness at his plight slowly give way to the notion that, for the first time in his young life, he is, by natural order, king of all that he sees.
He explores the island and comes to know of the old crocodile, always lying there motionless on the river bank. But for the young man what was once fear soon becomes something else. It starts out as little more than a game – throwing a clump of mud at the animal and quickly ducking behind a tree. This done, of course, from the safety and distance of the other side of the river. So he throws a stick. Then another. Soon he is stepping out into the open, standing at the water's edge and throwing stones at the animal's head. Every day he comes to the river and plays his game. Every day laughing, taunting, then turning his back and strutting away. Each time the croc sits and does nothing.
Then one day the young man comes down to the river, only to find the sandy bank empty. He looks up and down the murky stretch of water.
Nothing.
"Where are you?" he says softly to himself. His heart pounds and the sweat runs down his face as he scans the tangle of plants and trees around him.
"Where are you?" he yells.
The jungle falls silent.
With hurried steps he retreats to the safety that he always finds on his side of the island.
But he is compelled to return the next day, and the day after that. The crocodile is not there. By now a faint voice of triumph is ringing in the man's head. That croc must have known he'd met his master. Still, only a fool would test those dark and perilous waters. Better to simply claim victory and walk away.
And walk away he does, tossing out of his mind the funny notion that somehow the jungle is watching him. He returns safely and dives into a lagoon just off the ocean. Wading in to the clear blue water the heat of the day washes off him as he floats on his back and stares up at the sun and the limitless sky. Minutes pass by unnoticed and he smiles. King of all that he sees.
By the time he hears the rush of water and looks over it is too late. The force smashes into him and takes him under as a searing pain rips through his chest. He tries to fight but it doesn't last long. The last two things he sees are bony white teeth and clouds of red blood. His last thought is one of regret. Profound regret.
When it's all over the old crocodile crawls up on the beach. Beneath the sound of breaking surf he slowly makes his way back to his favorite spot in the sun where he will rest once again.
Long live the King.
-end-
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
An Open Letter To My Dad
In honor of Father's Day I thought I would post a letter written by my father, Clarence Stolt, in 1963 after the passing of his father.
An Open Letter to my Dad:
An Open Letter to my Dad:
The phone seemed to jingle a little more nervously than usual when Carol called at the
office and said you had slept away peacefully.
It wasn't unexpected. We both put up a bold front in our last visit at the St. Paul V.A. Hospital 10 days ago, but inwardly we knew. You made it clear that 85 was a lengthy life and you had no regrets in leaving.
I boarded the Hiawatha train the following day and found the quiet of a streamliner rolling northward an ideal place for reminiscing. You had a full life, Dad. Coming over from Sweden in rugged pioneer tradition and starting a new life in northwestern Wisconsin
Two old photographs come to mind. The faded confirmation photo in which your eyes speak sheer devilment, and that picture of you in your Spanish-American war uniform displays a physique few servicemen boast today. Not much fighting in that conflict, but those training camp conditions you mentioned on occasion didn't make me a bit envious. Incidentally, I'm told you were the last of the Spanish-American vets in Pierce County
By golly we had some great times together. Those fishing trips on the St. Croix river: (remember the time I cast your new rod into the depths of the Mississippi ?); those leisurely car trips along Lake Pepin Milwaukee
Our Christmas gathering last December left the most pleasant memories. You were feeling exceptionally chipper and I was amused by your comment that Kent Francis, my youngest, really warmed up to you on this visit. I know how happy you were two years ago when he came along to carry on the family name. Kent is a dynamic chap, a little too mischievous at times; I'm sure he takes after his "Gwam Pa.
Truthfully, Dad, I never heard anyone say a harsh word about you and my memory isn't good enough to recall all the compliments concerning the love, respect and help you gave your fellow man. Typically, you never bothered to mention to me your recent generous gift to the local church. You are certainly worthy of the Lord's promise: "Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard…the things which God hath prepared for those that love Him."
Thanks for everything, Dad. I know you are having a marvelous time now, and deservedly so (though I'd like to know how you explained about that pheasant incident). I won't say goodbye – just so long for a spell.
Sincerely,
Clarence
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