August 11, 2012

Juneau and Ketchikan both squat at the bottom of very steep, verdant mountains, with the sea licking at their toes. We were up by 5:30 in the morning, (which might sound heroic but our bodies were still remembering that Oklahoma is three hours ahead.) The ship nosed its mammoth bow to the dock and the shore crew began preparing to lower the gangplank. 

     We went to breakfast, stuffing ourselves for a long, luscious day of sightseeing and wanting to blend in with the Eskimos. There was a distinct shortage of whale blubber on board the Diamond Princess, so we made do with eggs benedict, bacon, sausage and ham, six varieties of fruit, pastries with fruit or chocolate filling and curried eggs. We decided to hold off on the cereals and non-American traditional breakfast offerings. We had NON-FAT  yogurt for dessert. (Yes, the irony that the ship offered only non-fat yogurt on board was NOT lost on us would-be Eskimos.)  Tricia settled for wafer-sliced smoked salmon and croissants.

We heard from our tour guide that he would meet us at the dock a little before nine, but since we were ready to go, we disembarked around 8:30, our backpacks loaded. One of the tour bus drivers, a cute little blonde girl who looked about 16, waved to us as she drove by. Alaskans sure are friendly! 

While we waited, I stepped into a gift shop right there on the dock and bought some jade jewelry and some hematite.  I really like the ultra polished black hematite. It seems so exotic and sophisticated. The idea that it’s “Alaskan diamonds”, as the shopping brochure suggested, is taking it a bit far. It might be compressed coal and turn into diamonds in a million years, but for now, it’s apparently fairly abundant and very shiny.

Finally we spotted our tour guide. He welcomed us all with warm hugs. He’s excessively handsome and charming with just enough scraggly beard to seem rugged. He wore dark rimmed glasses, which reinforced that fact that he was extremely knowledgeable. He seated us comfortably at the back of his coach, assuring us that those were the VIP seats.  As the 36 other tourists from our ship climbed aboard, he stood by the door welcoming each of them and answering any questions they had.

When all thirty six other passengers were aboard, he introduced himself and then told them that they were unwittingly honored to have us with them on the tour. They all turned and smiled at us as we basked in the glory of being so darn important.

As we set out, we were quickly engaged in the fascinating narration the guide offered as he drove.  He pointed out the different types of trees growing on the mountainside, (conifers higher, deciduous lower) because the glacier had scrubbed off all the old conifers and when it receded, the deciduous were the first to come back.  He told the history of the Roberts gold mine as we passed and then explained how a tunnel under the bay had yielded abundant gold and never leaked a bit until in one day, it filled with water, never to be used again.

He pointed out the bald eagles fishing in the shallows of the delta and explained the geology of why the island across the way was no longer an island. It seems that the tremendous weight of the glacier made a dent in the earth .  200 years ago, the channel was deep enough for “a steamship to float through” as had been written in earlier explorers’ journals, but as the glacier receded and relieved the elastic earth of its weight, the ground sprang back. The rebound is about an inch a year.  Coupled with the dark glacial flour(stone ground as fine as cornstarch by the glacier) that the streams dump into the bay, a low-tide land bridge has developed.

We turned off the highway that led along the sea, toward the Mendenhall glacier.  The guide explained that the only agriculture in the area had been to our right. It was a dairy farm, since milk products were spoiled before they could be shipped to Juneau in the old days. But a mammoth mud slide obliterated the farm and killed all the cows. Milk, once again, became exceedingly expensive. 

Our guide’s name tag appropriately read “Brain”. He warned us when we were about to catch a glimpse of the Glacier and was reward with an audible ‘OOOOOOOOOOHHHH’  as it came into view.  Who knew that glaciers are BLUE? 

Since our guide knew everything, he soon explained that it’s blue because of the extreme density of the ice that it absorbs all the other light wavelengths, but reflects the blue back because it’s the shortest wavelength.

Here’s a picture with our fabulous tour guide and the same darling little bus driver that waved at us.   For those of you who think they looked familiar, yes indeed, “Brain” is our son Brian who, with his cute, witty, little wife Kelsi, is spending the summer guiding tours around Juneau, Alaska.

Kelsi’s tour happened to overlap ours a little, so we got to see her for a little while at Mendenhall Glacier. She was driving a tour from another ship that spoke only Yiddish so she was strictly a bus driver that day.

After the group reassembled at the bus, Brian drove us to the Glacier Gardens.  A picture is worth a thousand words.  The odd gardens-in-a-tree were conceived when the gardener busted his rented backhoe and in frustration, flung a tree from his shovel. It landed upside-down in the mud. The areal root system arrested his artistic eye, and the sky-gardens were born.

At the gardens, I was introduced to the Alaskan delicacy of blueberry flavored hot cocoa.  I understand that this time of year, when the earth is baking under 100 degree scorch, the thought of hot cocoa doesn’t float your boat.  But though it wasn’t raining, the air temps were in the low 60’s at the highest and the hot, rich blueberry infused cocoa was beyond delicious.  (And remember that we had been away from our feeding trough on board for at least four hours by then!)

Though Brian had carried many tours to the gardens, the gardens’ own guide drove the electric carts up the steep, narrow, winding road to the top of the property where the view overlooked the bay and bits of the town below. Because we were along, the Glacial Gardens allowed him to take the tour with us.  

From there, we went to the “fishery” where they operate a hybrid version of a trout hatchery.  There’s a natural stream that runs into the bay there, and the salmon come up the stream, into the ladder (shown below) and into the hatchery holding ponds of their own accord.  The hatchery then cuts them open for their eggs and sperm, and then sells them to a fish-smoking plant, (which is just as uncommon as a plant smoking fish) (pardon the pun) or to a salmon cannery or to a dog food factory.

 The whole system is quite ingenious, I think.  The salmon are ready to spawn, but they begin to deteriorate as soon as they enter the fresh water. They fight their way upstream until they arrive in the pool where they hatched. The females lay their eggs on the bottom and the males swim over and release sperm.  It’s not very romantic, except  for the fact that as soon as they have accomplished the purpose of their trip, they die. So, by creating a place near the ocean for the fish to return to while they’re still in good condition after fattening themselves free of charge in the sea, the hatchery reaps the benefit of their lifecycle with very little cost.  The hatchery was also set up with a bunch of live displays of native fish in huge tanks. We also sampled teriyaki salmon jerky which tastes good until you swallow and then it just tastes salmon-y in your mouth until you replace it.  If you like salmon, it’s GREAT!  Unfortunately, I don’t fit into that group.

We had planned to borrow a van from Brian’s tour company, but there were  none available. So we went to the rent-a-wreck place almost next door, but they apparently only man that lot when the ships first come in, and there was nobody there. 

Brian called Kelsi, (who had finished conveying the Yiddish-speaking folks through town and received not ONE dime in tips,) and she picked us up in their SWEET truck.  It’s a custom vehicle, with unique cracks in the windshield,
 and a  skylight cut through the roof and a window glued in with about a quart of roofing cement.  The clutch seemed very happy-go-lucky.  (We were happy and lucky to make it go?) But the spacious bed allowed us Okies with an unimpeded view Facinating Juneau. Two of us piled in the front with the driver. Brian realized that there was no way for him to shift the floor-mounted gear without getting rather personal with his mother sitting beside him, he relinquished the wheel into Kelsi’s expert hands.

Brian and Kelsi live in a half a house they pay $700 a month for.  The other half is boarded up and there are trees growing through the floorboards. The whole structure seemed to rock more than the ship on open ocean.  But they have rusty wolf traps and a deer skull and antlers they found in the woods hung artistically on the walls for decoration. A ragged buffet cart is draped with a  beautiful sunset-toned scarf Kelsi rescued from a garbage can after she saw someone throw it away. Later in our trip, I saw a very similar scarf for sale in a nice shop. It was hand painted by Tlingit artisans.  They wanted $59 for it, I think.

We enjoyed the sandwiches we’d packed, ordered from roomservice the night before.  Unfortunately, they had not come wrapped, so we had stuffed them into odd tourist bags. Us cruisers didn’t touch the fruit we’d carried to our loved ones.  Food is VERY expensive everywhere in AK and our poor student/tourguides were hungry for fresh fruit.

After lunch, they took us on a fun hike behind the glacier to an old, abandoned gold mine.

Brian and Kelsi consider an update for their house.
Once down from the mine, they took us to a stream near the bay where the salmon were running.  Brian and Kelsi set the astonishing example of pulling giant salmon out of the water by their tales!  We quickly joined in, except for Tricia, who didn’t comprehend the transcendent delight of catching salmon barehanded.
Kelsi wrestled a huge salmon out of the melee and I wanted her to hold it so I could show the vicious spawning teeth. As she wrestled with the salmon, the poor fish got the wrong idea and spawned all over Kesli. “Those of us who are about to die, salute you!” He was way to frisky for a good picture, and he probably weighed about 8 pounds.

It was getting late and we were all hungry, but we hated to leave earlier than we needed to when it was our only day with Brian and Kelsi. We bought them some supper downtown and they toured us to their favorite shops, (namely the authentic native Tlingit arts shop.) If you have a spare $50,000, you can own a genuine wooly mammoth tusk. 

We saw the state capitol building, justly voted the ugliest capitol building in the US. We saw the governor’s mansion, recently renovated at great cost.  Sarah Palin lived in it very little which inspired a law that the governor of Alaska must reside in the mansion for a certain minimum period each year. 

Though it was after seven when we headed for the ship, it was so tough to leave our darling kids. Though we had many more fabulous adventures, that day was the highlight of the whole trip.

Alaska is so wild, untamed and unexplored, hiding treasure and wildlife, oil and abundant, vivid life, that that pair of dear ones seem to fit as natural parts.

We moved from So. California to the outskirts of Colorado Springs, CO when Brian was a kindergartener. We went from 1400 square feet on a quarter acre to 3600 square feet on an acre of pine and meadow.  One day in that first week, I sat on the covered porch,  watching Brian climb a tree, reminding myself to breathe.  I have the idea that most children can sense their own safety and barring unknown factors, they can judge what they’re capable of.  He was about 50 feet up when Jeff came home from work. I pointed out the “little red squirrel” in the top of the tree.  Jeff nearly fainted. 

“I can see Pikes Peak!” Brian yelled. 

Now in Alaska, he’s found the birthing ground for mountains.  If I were to write a new creation story, I would have life flowing like the glacial ice from Alaska to the rest of the world where it smooths and warms.  I’ve seen parts of several other countries around the world and all but (now) three of the United States, but nothing has gotten into my dreams like Alaska has. Every night since we got home 8 days ago, I dream of Alaska. I’m not encountering wildlife in my dreams, (we did plenty of that in our waking hours,) but the untamed, vibrant scenery influences my sleep. I don’t understand it intellectually, but I feel it on an essential level.

The day after Juneau was spent at sea, watching whales, in the cold, gray sea and sipping hot cocoa offered from white-uniformed waiters.  More later!       

August 7, 2012

We woke Monday morning to find  storybook houses  and touristy shops lining the harbor at Ketchikan. We watched from our balcony as the Diamond Princess nosed up and propellers shut off.    Though Ketchikan Alaska gets something around 170 inches of rain each year, (similar to living in a fish pond), the sky was mostly clear and cool. Every inch of ground that wasn’t paved or built on, seemed to be green!

  We dressed in layers, as we’d been advised to do, and wore our hiking/walking shoes. Jeff hadn’t planned any paid excursions for that day, but having studied his guidebook, he called a taxi for us and we rode up the 45 degree angle road to a trail head.  (We girls had to convince him to hike first, shop later. I don’t know if we thwarted his strategy to minimize purchases (You don’t really want to carry that up a steep, slippery trail, DO YOU?) or whether he just hadn’t thought about it.)

The hike was labeled moderate, and that was only because it was so meticulously maintained.  Think about a 1300 foot rise in a mile. That’s about a 20% grade.  They put warning signs on highways when there are 5% grades! 

The path was crisscrossed with brooklets and waterfalls . A plant called ‘devil’s club’ looks very tropical, but is covered in vicious thorns.  It is said to have medicinal properties, but the berries, though eaten by bears, are toxic to humans. The moss was mattress-thick with Disney Land style red and white polka dot mushrooms nestled in secret little nooks.

The first overlook rewarded us with a view of the bay and the islands beyond. To call it breathtaking would be untrue. Our breath was long gone from that steep hike!  BUT if we’d had any left, the view would have taken it.
 

We clawed up another half mile or so with another 700 foot elevation gain. We crossed an avalanche scree  field on an 8 inch wide path. But I suddenly remembered that nobody gives out blue ribbons for enduring difficulties and so I yielded to my fellow hikers pleading and turned back. :>)

On board, they’d given us a booklet of on-shore bargain coupons so we’d be lured into the tourist shops. Just as there are soaring green mountains enclosing Ketchikan, there are mountains of cheap souvenirs for collecting green stuff near the dock.  But many of the stores offered free stuff with any purchase and when we poked around a little, there truly were some bargains.  We got a nice ulu knife, (a skinning knife with a curved blade. . .you never know when you’re going to need one of those) and some other clever odds and ends.  Ironically, they had nice rain coats embossed with “Ketchikan Alaska” for $20.  They were good quality and an ideal fall/spring weight.  I kept reminding myself that I had a rain coat and didn’t know anyone that needed one but I kinda wanted it.  I resisted the temptation and then later in the trip, I left my new black rain coat in a Wasilla restaurant.  The coats like that in other tourist traps cost at least double and mostly quadruple. 

Thomas was jealous of the wool socks I bought. I got some free jewelry that I really like and will either give as a gift or wear myself. The fun thing was that they were all cheerful about giving the free stuff, and it wasn’t embarrassing to collect it. Tricia is resolute about her souvenir budget and helps me to consider the who, what, and why of vacation shopping.  

The ship was set to leave at 1:00pm, so we made it back to the ship by about noon.  We didn’t want to miss the midday feeding frenzy on board, or have to pay for something in town.  But I had stashed my ulu (or is it Oloo?) knife in Tricia’s backpack and we had to go through ship security every time we got on board.  The backpack set off the alarms and the fellow asked Tricia if she had a knife in her backpack. 

‘Uh, I don’t think so,” she answered. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do!” he said. “You have an Alaskan Ulu knife in there.”  Happily, they didn’t throw her overboard as a terrorist and merely told her to stow it immediately in her luggage and not to have it out while on board.  I admit it was a dirty trick to put it in her backpack but it was innocently done! 

We were a little earlier than other on shore travelers and got a nice window seat in the dining room.  Something of a common fear drew many passengers to watch the docks for late comers.  People came running from the dark reaches of Creek street, (the red light district in earlier years),
their arms loaded with embroidered sweatshirts and Hematite jewelry. One set pulled up in a minivan, right to the bottom of the gangway, a full 15 minutes after the “all aboard”. They left the van and all ran into the ship. That got the folks in the dining room chatting to be sure.  But after another 10 minutes, the driver returned to the van and she didn’t seem especially stressed. I  guess she was a tour guide and not a passenger.

That night we went to a comedian’s show.  He had given a short presentation in the welcome aboard show and he was very entertaining. 

I’ll write about Juneau tomorrow.  We had the most DARLING tour guide, I could write volumes.  I think it’s safe to say that I LOVE that tour guide and always will. In fact, we invited him to come for Christmas with his adorable wife.  We even have his phone number on speed dial on our cell phones!  But I’ll save that story for tomorrow. 

August 4, 2012

For those of you who regularly check my blog, You notice that I’ve been absent for a few weeks. We took an Alaskan cruise and then spent the second week touring around the inner reaches of Alaska (Denali and the Kenai Peninsula).  While we were gone, my sister-in-law Shauna had her surgery for breast cancer and she is recovering from the surgery well, but the prognosis is still in question with some genuine worries.  

Our son Daniel took the GRE and was pleased to do very well.  He’s going to be applying for PhD programs in Psychology starting in December and this will help him land a good one.

We missed the first part of the terrible heatwave, but it was 110 on our back patio last night.

The (Mormon) missionaries, who have lived in the upstairs of our house for the last year moved out while we were away, too.  In anticipation of our move, we had told them that they needed to move but didn’t expect them to leave for a couple more weeks.  I guess their lease started in August. We enjoyed having them overall, but it does feel wonderful to have the additional privacy. I certainly gained insight into what it’s like to be a missionary as well as the diverse challenges involved in serving the Lord full time. We had 8 different Elders over the year and learned to love each of them in their own way.  They were certainly diverse!

I have decided to try a travelogue since our vacation was so over-the-top this year.  The above pictures are the first installment from Seattle to Vancouver where we boarded the ship at Canada Place and set sail on the Diamond Princess. More pictures to follow in subsequent installments. The ship itself was unbelievably lavish, but after a quiet start, we ended up with the most diverse variety of experiences I can imagine.  We went from posh royalty to sweating mountain climbers in a matter of minutes! We got the organic and the lavishly contrived.

The cruise and tour of Alaska was everything I could have hoped for, (almost). My husband Jeff has a hobby of planning fabulous vacations that are tailored minutely to our favorite things. There are always elements of luxury mixed with frugality and loads of adventure.  We all enjoy road trips, so we often mix methods of transportation. 

This was our first ever cruise. There were many parts that really surprised us, but as every person who has ever cruised will testify, the food was unbelievable.  I went into it determined not to backslide, having recently lost some weight. Hah!  But I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m going to journal the last two weeks here, for anyone who’s interested, but I’ll do it in a few segments.

Jeff chose Princess Cruises because they depart Vancouver on a Saturday and are at sea all of Sunday.  We didn’t want to be in some port on the Sabbath where we would feel guilty shopping/sightseeing/recreating. Our flight left OKC at 6:00 and after a long delay in San Francisco, we took to the air again. We realized that though Jeff and I both grew up in Northern California, Thomas had no memory of being in San Francisco.  He had the window seat with a good view of the Golden Gate Bridge, Alcatraz Island and the San Francisco skyline.

We made it to Seattle, WA an two hours late.  We easily rebooked our shuttle ride to Vancouver, and since the shuttle had two other stops, we got a nice little tour of Seattle, where none of us had ever visited before. (See Space needle in above picture)  The Space Needle is indeed an odd looking structure.  Everytime I run across my photos of it, I think I was holding my camera upside down.  Seattle is an especially scenic place, with its quaint harbors, (I tend to think all harbors are quaint), interesting buildings and lavish natural beauty. 

(The thermometer here in OK is now up to 106  at about 11:00 a.m. and the cicadas are screaming with other-worldly force. Our neighbor is riding around on his mower in a tank top…Dave, can you say melanoma?)

Lush forests and profuse kaleidoscope flowers adorned the shoulders of the highway to Vancouver. The wipers stayed on ‘intermittent’ most of the way. Wildflower strewn waterways and wooded hills made me sorry that we were bound to a schedule and constricting bus.

                Jeff had cleverly arranged to have the shuttle drop us at the airport and we rode an airport shuttle to our hotel. Vancouver is a European-feeling city, with lush flower baskets hanging everywhere with gardens in the medians. There were four Chinese restaurants in a four block area, with two takeout pizza places.  The restaurants were all crowded and we weren’t officially splurging yet, so we opted for a large pizza in a dusty little corner up the street. Since I was not yet undeceived of my plan to control my appetite, I held myself to one slice.  It was well I did. I was wise to conserve every last calorie for the gluttonous week that was to follow. (But if you’re going to be obese, you might as well do it on trifle and filet mignon than on cheap pizza!)  We declined the Hilton’s $7.00 breakfast and bought chocolate milk and muffins at a convenience store run by a middle eastern gent who spoke little English.

   The shuttle ride took us through a circuitous route through down town Vancouver, reinforcing our impression of it being very “European”.  Now I admit that the closest I’ve ever been to Europe is Scotland, but there were strange-seeming apartment buildings right downtown.  Dozens of uniform, rectangular, high-rise buildings, all appearing to be at least 60 years old and un-beautiful.  Tricia, who has seen far more of the world than I, testified that they looked very much like the old communist apartment buildings seen in the Ukrainian cities. The incongruity with the old gaslight district surprised me.

We had to show our passports and go through another ‘customs’ like security checkpoint before going to the Diamond Princess.  But OH WHAT A SHIP! Inlaid floors and polished brass with three stories of swanky shops greeted us as we entered.(See photo above)
 Travel worn and anxious, I was pretty sure that my red neck and thrift store attire trumpeted “MISFIT”.

We went straight to our stateroom, which is about the size of one of our master-bedroom closets. (We have magnificent closets in this home.) We were horror struck at the sight of it!  There were four of us to share the cramped room and there were two twin beds a desk, fridge and shelf. The TV was necessarily mounted from the ceiling!  Now, Jeff and I are not as skinny as we used to be, but the idea of sharing a twin bed with him was nothing (I’m sure) to the horror Tricia and Thomas felt at the prospect of sharing one.  We were about to hit the panic button and call the steward, “There’s been a TERRIBLE mistake!” when someone noticed that there were twin-sized apparatus tucked into the ceiling.  We couldn’t bring them down, but as soon as the steward appeared, (within a few minutes) we made him demonstrate how the bunks came down.  He got a good chuckle out of that. (Rednecks AGAIN) he thought.  (Although like all other waiters and workers on board, English was his second language).(Us labor laws don’t permit our citizens to work 7 days a week 13 hour days, even if we are on a cruise ship.) They have a three-month on, three month off policy.

There was a pretty little balcony with chairs and a table. We were on deck 12 on the starboard side, so watched as the tugboat pulled us free of the dock when the time came.  Oh the balcony was a delight! 

We went to lunch right away, (Having saved our pennies on the muffins and feeling the hollow spots) (the last we were to experience for a good while). The buffet was almost directly above us, with glass walls so that if you got a seat by the window, you could eat and gaze at the passing scenery. 

But gazing was far from our minds. There was prime rib and several kinds of fish, pasta, chicken a half dozen ways, rice creations new to me, but delicious. Potatoes formed and cheesed and herbed into exotic forms and savory pleasures. A dozen types of vegetables, and as many breads, crusty and fresh. Butter formed into cute little flowers. The salad bar was mostly finely shredded so that it was easy to eat and to get exactly the portion you wanted.  There were half a dozen types of salads from various ethnicities.  Watermelons carved as roses and caribou and bald eagles adorned the fruit buffet. I never knew there could be so many luscious, perfectly ripe pineapples in one place as I found aboard every day!  There were eight or nine different pastry chef delights. (more later on that subject) No meal was ever served without at least half a dozen varieties of cheeses.

The plates on the buffet are about 16 inch ovals.  There are other plates and bowls for fruit, dessert and the salad bar.

As soon as we were seated politely at a table, a waiter brought us lemonade with bits of lemon and the exactly perfect amount of sugar. Heavy, linen napkins gently touched our lips. . .if we thought to wipe away any minute bit of the glories that passed there.

Lunch was barely eaten, (It takes awhile on that scale) when yeoman on The Diamond Princess furled the dockside flags (see picture) and ran up the Canadian and other nautically significant flags. The only initial sense of movement was a distinct vibration. Most of the passengers went to their balconies or the deckrails to wave at the poor unfortuates left on the dock or even on the puny Holland America or other ships. The harbor is snug for a mammoth craft of that sort. Pedestrians waved from the bridge we passed under and after a final swish past a snug lighthouse, the bow nosed north and we were on our way. 

As we explored the Diamond Princess, we found she had 5 swimming pools, about a dozen hot tubs (many more “tubs” by the end of the cruise!) a fun 9 hole putting course, shuffleboard, ping pong, a 600 seat(?) theater and oh so many “dining rooms.”

We retired that evening, unable to feel any movement other than the consistent vibration. The stateroom was cool enough for us to appreciate pajamas.  The steward brought extra pillows on request.  The “cots” win no awards for luxury, but they were comfortable enough and it’s easy to sleep when your tummy is so busy with a two day backlog of work.

Since I had only had my HRT prescription for a few days before we left, I was up several times in the night with hot flashes, but I can’t blame that on the ship. Jeff’s snoring kept Tricia and Thomas awake some but that’s not the Princess’s fault either. 

Ah well, there is a limit to enjoyment you’re likely to receive from the vicarious experience, so I will cease. The next entry will be Monday when we stopped in Ketchikan, AK where we began our penance for our over-indulgence and had the first of adventures in the Alaskan wild.        

Saturday Morning Short Story: The Minister’s School

July 16, 2012
The Minister’s School

There was not much Hellfire and damnation in Brandon Meade’s Sunday sermons. He had become a minister because of the overpowering joy that filled him at times. There was power and strength in trusting Jesus, he knew. Faith was a living thing, the power of God that filled the leaves of the trees and the wildflowers and the mighty rising sun! He thought if he could give that delight to just one other person, he would die happy.
And now he had a congregation full of people that looked up to the pulpit with their eyes full of love and hope. He watched their worry lines relax and their faces grow thoughtful. His Corner Baptist Church overflowed into the annex every Sunday. Little slips of paper appeared on his desk after services thanking him for his contagious joy. The last five years had been the happiest of his life and every year seemed better than the last. And soon, (at last) he would be a father!
On this particular Monday morning, Brandon had ridden his bicycle out to Mount Holyoak to watch the sunrise from its modest summit. Now, his daredevil speed back to town watered his eyes and he laughed aloud for the joy of it. He was a crazy man: crazy in love with the world and everything in it.
He clattered his helmet on the back porch of the rectory and wheeled his bike indoors. Diane smiled over her shoulder, not bothering to turn her 8th month pregnant body from the stove where she was scrambling eggs.
He kissed her loudly on the cheek, and she glanced into his face. Diane’s face was so smooth and open that there was nowhere for deceit to hide. Her thoughts marched in full array on her features with no cover at all. After their initial smile and intimate greeting of eyes meeting and her understanding the summit ride and the breakneck ride home without him telling her, he saw that she knew something that subdued the second glance. There was a small worry marching out of uniform through the parade of her thoughts.  She would wait to tell him until he finished his breakfast.
Brandon wished she would wait until tomorrow. He was not a curious man. Sometimes those ugly intruders-of-peace died an ignominious death on Diane’s face without ever speaking. He ate his pancakes and eggs with hope in his heart.
When he had finished, he started to rise but Diane laid a hand on his.
“Abby Wilson called,” she murmured.
Abby Wilson was the town I-don’t-want-to-gossip-but. . .woman who knew everything about everyone. She concluded her reports to the minister or the teacher or the town doctor with a sighing ‘bless her heart’. It was the Satanic version of “Amen”, uttered only after something wicked had been said. 
Brandon groaned. “I’ll call her later. It’s such a beautiful morning. Why would anyone want to fling garbage all over it?”
Diane’s lips became lemon-sour. “She said it was urgent, Brandon, and I think it might be.” She handed him a slip with a phone number marked “Abby’s cell.”
“’Abysmal’ it should say!” He went to his study and closed the door. He knelt beside his little love seat and prayed until his mind wandered back to the doe rabbit and her kittens in the hutch behind the house.  Eight kits and their eyes were open and so tiny that two could sit in your palm.  And he got a note from a new member of the congregation saying he was the best preacher they’d ever heard. He wondered how many preachers they’d heard?  What good was a victory if you didn’t know the competition?
But Diane knocked softly on the study door. “Say ‘Amen’ and make the call, Brandon.” She was born to be a preacher’s wife. She was tailor-made for him.
He finished his prayer with one last “Thank you” to God for the healthy rabbits and new congregants and in the wave of delight he dialed the phone hoping that Abby wouldn’t hear the phone. But she did.
“This is scary, Bran.” Nobody else in the world shortened his name to “Bran.” He had joked that when he heard it, it made him wish ‘Bran’ was his last name and ‘Raisin’ was his first. But Abby didn’t take the joke and she didn’t change her way. Why should she when she was in charge of the world?
“You know the Miller’s little girl, ‘Faith’?
“Of course I do. We pray for her every day since Gina and Dave got the diagnosis.”
“Well, you probably know that they sent her home with a port for her meds so she’s getting her chemo through the port without having to drag her back and forth or poke the poor little thing more than is necessary.”
The minister sighed. “I know this, Abby. What’s the emergency this morning?”
“You need to go out to their house for the whole picture. But Gina told me last night that she can’t stand to clean the port, and that if they have faith in Jesus, God will take care of their little girl.”
Now Brandon frowned a deep, convincing scowl. “That’s nonsense.”
“I don’t think anyone else but you can convince them, bless their hearts.”
Brandon hung up quickly, before Abysmal could ask a blessing on his heart, too.
It was eleven o’clock before Brandon’s Ford truck crunched the Miller’s gravel driveway.  Old fast-food wrappers and soda cans tangled with waist high weeds in front of the house. The wooden rail had rotted and fallen off. The screen door waved in tatters like banners on the Fourth of July.
Little Faith answered his knock herself. A wet diaper hung to her knees but she was otherwise naked. A yellow crust coated the inside of her abdominal port. The skin around it was red and raised.  Her snarled hair hung in her eyes. The scent of damp garbage forced him a step backward on the precarious porch.
“Hello, little Faith. Is your Mommy or Daddy here?”
She pulled the door wider to reveal the living room behind her and pointed to them.  Brandon stepped through the door. The trash in the yard was just the overflow. Pizza crust and chicken bones mixed with dirty clothes and soiled paper plates. Groceries had been purchased but never put away and two gallons of milk stood side by side on the cluttered table. A box of Cheerios stamped with the foodbank logo spilled onto the floor and crunched under his feet. Had they turned off the air conditioner in 100 degree heat?
Brandon wanted to invite them to talk to him on the porch, but the husband and wife shrieked as they manipulated the controls of the newly released video game they were playing. The minister had to raise his voice to catch their attention and then Gina leapt up and ran to back of the house. She wore nothing but her underwear.
  Dave paused his game and stood up. He wore whitie tighties’ aged to a sickly grey. Only. But his belly hung so far over his underwear that it added some degree of modesty. His body odor sprayed spores toward the minister as he moved and Brandon moved back defensively.
“We’re a little slow gettin’ goin’ t’day,” Dave drawled. “We weren’t expectin’ ya.” There was no friendliness in his manner.
Brandon had never had a panic attack before and though he knew his body language must communicate, he couldn’t help but wrap himself in his own arms. His rising gorge threatened to embarrass him. He hated to be embarrassed more than anything else.
He calmed his voice to seriousness. “One of the other members is concerned that Gina said she’s not cleaning little Faith’s medicine port. It looks to me like that’s true.”
“Oh, we clean it sometimes.”
“When was the last time?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe yesterdy or the day before. Probly sometime last week.”
Gina had dressed herself and joined them near the door. “That would be Abby, reporting on everybody else’s business.”
“It doesn’t much matter who it was if the concern and the danger are real, does it?”
“Well Faith’s fine!  Minister, you ought to be the last one to worry. Three months ago when you spoke so beautifully on having faith to move mountains, faith to be healed, I knew you were speaking just to me. I’ve been so worried about little Faith, and then I heard you and I knew that Jesus would heal her and there was no need to worry at all.” Gina’s eyes shone with genuine tears and she lifted her face toward the heavens.
Brandon, a man of many words, was struck dumb. His eyes moved slowly around the room, seeking a ray of the love of God. If the Sunday sermon had inspired them, where was God’s love now?
 Little Faith sat on sofa where her parents had been, fiddling with the game controls. Dave noticed and barked for her to put it down. She startled guiltily. Her diaper came off as she slid to the floor.
“You’re the best preacher we’ve ever had. We look forward to church every Sunday,” Gina continued. Her fingernails were long with dirt under them like a sloth’s.
Brandon’s disconnected gaze continued to rove the room. Why were they only there on potluck Sunday if they loved all his sermons? He wanted to ask them, but the answer would be a drop in an ocean of contradictions, (were they lies?) and he feared drowning. Could you drown in words? Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words?
His swirling thoughts settled into a halting sentence. “You…have…not…understood.”
“Oh we understand,” Dave stepped closer and Brandon stepped back to the threshold.
“No!” A surge of energy, harvested from the first bright rays of the morning sun sprung from him. “The way you live is not faith!” The memory of the cold morning air rushing over his exercised cheeks with the new sun behind him, his shadow so long in front of him, he might have been a mate to Lady Liberty, squared his shoulders. “Faith is movement. Action! Faith is an action word. Worship is not a thought, it’s a deed!” His ideas gathered momentum. He was a minister. This was ministering!
“We might have missed the sermon yesterday,” Dave stepped forward again and Brandon found himself on the porch. “But we didn’t order a sermon today.”
“Don’t worry Minister. It may not seem to you that our faith is strong enough for our baby to be healed, but we know that it is.”
“She’s four years old and still in diapers!”
 Why had he said that? That was probably the very least of the issues. Maybe the least thing was the only thing small enough for words.
“Get out of my house,” Dave said. He leaned his elbow on the doorframe, giving full vent to his putrid armpit. Brandon leapt backward off the porch.
“Don’t worry!” Gina’s unruffled voice floated after him.  “Well use our faith in Jesus and it will all turn out fine.”
He squared himself to them when he was out of reach. “Get little Faith to the hospital this morning! There’s inflammation around the incision on her tummy!”
Gina did not see the gesture Dave signaled the minister with as he swung the door closed.
A moment later, the minister heard the renewed beeps and roars of the new release video game.
Brandon rolled the windows all the way down, despite the heat of the day. The swift scent of fresh-cut hay pulled off the clinging bits of the fetid Miller’s and the honest odor of cow manure scoured out his nose hairs.
 He should have brought the child with him. Could he have done it? Was it legal? But he knew that he had not the strength to bring the filthy, sick child to his home. Even if he could physically have rescued her, he couldn’t emotionally.
With God, nothing shall be impossible.
He was weak. She must go to the hospital where there were gallons of antiseptic to neutralize infection. Infected Faith.
 He parked his truck in the detached garage and entered his own front door. Diana lifted the vacuum out of the closet with one hand while her other rubbed her great, firm belly. The sun through the window showed not a mote of dust. The chime on the dryer’s permanent press cycle rang once. It would ring twice in five minutes if nobody opened the dryer door. Perhaps it would ring three times after another five minutes, but he wasn’t sure. Diane never let it go that long.
He stared at her smooth, guileless face. She raised her eyebrows, questioning.
“I have learned…something…terrible.”
“Is everything all right?”
Brandon shook his head. “I’m a coward. I’m a vain coward.”  
“What is it?”
He did not mean to be funny. But the double meaning of the phrase seemed important. Maybe not to the Millers, but it was important to him. “Faith, without works,” he shook his head, sorrowing. “is dead.”
“Whose works? Whose faith?”
Brandon could preach better than any other minister. The congregants raised their loving eyes to him and the worry melted into thoughtfulness. He received tender notes from the members in his church. Little girls all over the parish were being christened “Faith,” “Hope,”and “Charity, from a sermon he gave when he first came to Johnstown.
 “I told the easy part of the truth and that turned it into a lie.” He raised his frightened eyes to his wife’s. The minister turned into his study and shut the door with a bang. His hand trembled as he dialed the sheriff.
“Faith will die if nobody acts,” he told the man on the other end. He gave his name. And he gave the Miller’s address.  

Chicken Gumbo Soup recipe.

July 14, 2012
Hey Friends, I have a Chicken Gumbo recipe that I love and it works great when you pressure can the leftovers. 
Chop:
6 stalks of celery
4 good sized onions, (I usually use yellow)
2 poblano or bell peppers
2 pounds of chicken meat (I use the boneless, skinless breast meat)
If you’re feeling wild and crazy add a pound of ground sausage, but be sure to drain it before adding liquids. If you do add sausage, leave out the fennel.
Saute with a little oil in large pot until somewhat carmelized.
Add:
10 bullion cubes
2 10-16 oz cans of chopped tomatoes with green chilis (like rotelle)
1 teaspoon fennel
1 tablespoon of minced garlic or equivalent garlic powder (about half that much)
3 quarts of of water
1 1/2 cups of white rice
about a pound of okra cut into rings.(fresh or frozen)
Boil half an hour until rice is done. (The okra thickens the soup so don’t add any other thickener) Okra served alone is slimy but in gumbo it just gives a nice thick consistancy.
Did you know that the African word ‘gumbo’ means ‘okra’?
To can it, after you serve it and reserved out tomorrow’s lunch, fill clean mason jars and process on 15 pounds pressure for about 45 minutes.

Story to follow on Monday.  I taught a pressure canning class this morning and haven’t had time to finish the story.

Saturday Morning Short: The Last Time

July 7, 2012
The Last Time

Jerry watched as the postman disappeared down his sidewalk before he retrieved the letter he had been watching for. He opened it and read the contents. He sighed deeply, sinking to his knees beside the bench in his entryway where he offered a tearful prayer of thanks.

The following Monday, he gave his two week notice at his job. To his boss only did he give a full explanation.

After that, he went to the grocery store and bought nutella and ice cream and watermelon. He added freshly baked wheat rolls and deli roast beef. He bought two percent chocolate milk . He hadn’t bought anything but skim since he graduated from college.

Jerry invited his brother’s family to come for a cook out the next Saturday. He bought expensive steaks for the adults and hotdogs to please the kids.

“Jer, you must be in love!” his brother teased. “It would take nothing short of a serious romance to get a tightwad like you to spring for filets.”

But his sister in law, Mary, watched Jerry closely and when her husband had gone to tend to the kids in the back yard, she asked if he was okay.

“I’m okay.” He said softly. “But life is short and I decided I’d better do the things I’ve always wanted to do while I had the chance.”

“So you’re not in love?”

“No.” But he riveted his eyes on the salad he was making and wouldn’t say much else.

“You’re moving away. You got another job.”

“Yes.”

He held his niece and nephew on his lap while they ate their ice-cream Sundae’s after dinner.

“Why did you buy our favorite kind of ice cream, Uncle Jerry?” His nephew asked.

“I want you all to know how much I love you.  I could have just said. ‘I love you,’ but don’t you think it’s easier to believe if I say it with ice cream?”

The children nodded grinned and Mary watched her brother in law closely.  He didn’t touch his ice cream and while all of them were red-faced from the heat, he was pale.

The next day after work,  Jerry cleaned the widow next door’s gutters of the seed pods that clogged it every year and then paid in advance for a maintenance company to do her yard work for the next year. He cleaned the neighbor’s on the other side’s pool and took a long, slow dip in the overwarm water.  The next day, Jerry went to the symphony matinee. Then he took his niece and nephew to the dollar store and let them buy whatever their hearts desired.  

He slept on clean sheets. He read three classic novels. He wrote a poem. He organized his personal papers and policies and readied them to be placed in safekeeping.

On his last day of work, he took flowers to Nadine, a woman he had long admired and never had the courage to ask on a date. He said goodbye to his secretary and boxed up his personal belongs.  His boss walked him to his car and gave him a ferocious man hug.

Before he went in his front door, he walked to the mail box and posted the envelope of his important papers to his brother.

That evening, he made himself a smoothy with frozen raspberries and a little ice cream and Mexican vanilla. It was melted before he finished it.

It took him all night to clean his house.

The next day, Jerry wrote a dozen letters. That evening, he shaved himself, trimmed his nails and styled his hair with gel. He dressed in a long loose nightshirt. He sat on his back patio on a chaise lounge, listening to the cicadas song with the tree frogs providing the harmony. The warm air brushed his face like a happy memory. He let the warm, salt tears stream of the edge of his jaw and fall on his nightshirt unimpeded.  It was hard to say goodbye. But he had no regrets. The moon rose in white innocence and strolled her languid pace through heaven. The stars nibbled in her wake like ardent minnows.

The soft immediate night crept slowly around him, humming to him. His body relaxed and his mind relaxed and then his body became so slack that his spirit slipped out .

Mary’s instinct took her to Jerry’s the next day when he didn’t answer his phone. She took her husband and had a neighbor watch the children.

The letter for which Jerry had given thanks was on the front entry table. Their names were written in red marker on the part that showed on top so they wouldn’t miss it.

Dear Mr. Peterson,

As you requested, find your written blood work results enclosed. As you will see, all the markers indicate advanced leukemia. I’m so sorry that  you guessed correctly. It explains why you have felt so tired and listless. If you have any questions, feel free to call me any time, at home or at the office.  At this point of the disease, you may expect only a few weeks of life at the very most.

My best wishes and condolences, Dr. Edward Wilkensen.

Jerry had added a note.

“I am so grateful to have had warning. Never forget that I love you and the kids. I’ll be loving you where I am, in my new job as an angel and waiting for you to come when the time is right. My will and my insurance policy will arrive by mail soon if they haven’t already.  All my love. Jer.

June 30, 2012
As many of you followers know, I’ve had two friends die in the last two months. Jeffrey’s mother Janet writes a newspaper column and posts them on a blog site. She’s a gifted writer and I think all of you will enjoy her posts. The most recent one, “I wasn’t Ready to Say Goodbye” is very touching to me.  Here’s the link: http://www.justsayinephrata.blogspot.com/
I’ll add the blogsite to my list on the right side Chocolate Cream Centers.

Saturday Morning Short: The Bargain

June 30, 2012
A fictional story with a bit of political salt and pepper!

The Bargain

Jessica Ann was nobody’s minion. She had a mind of her own and proved it by sitting on the capitol steps protesting Wall Street. Though the weekly check she received in payment went vaguely against her principles, after all she had to eat. More accurately, she was responsible for her own cell phone bill and car insurance.

The 20-year-old felt especially empowered. She’d been interviewed for the News! She would have to leave early from class to get to Grandma’s to see the broadcast. Her memory of the event wrapped her like a fleecy blanket. The reporter asked what brought them there, and Jessica had spoken boldly against capitalism, the oppressive one percent who controlled all the wealth, and all forms of bigotry. And the Teapartiers! She’d found a few choice words for them!  This was AMERICA! All should have equal rights and opportunity. She smiled to herself when she thought how deftly she avoided answering the questions about funding. The smart aleck reporter had even asked who paid her tuition. She had used her best glare down stare and told him it was none of his business.

Her professor congratulated her on her sudden fame but he did it with an eyebrow raised and that smirky little half smile that made him seem like he didn’t really mean what he said. But he didn’t object when she slipped out of class fifteen minutes early.

Grandma’s maid answered the door and she told Jessica that her grandmother was already upstairs in the theater room with the news on. She bounded up and burst into the media room. Grandma was standing up watching the very news channel that had interviewed her.

“This is the channel I’m going to be on!” Jessica panted.

“I know. I saw the teaser an hour ago,” Grandma said. She neither looked at nor greeted her granddaughter otherwise.

It was probably the tank shirt she’d been wearing. Grandma still thought girls should cover their breasts and that shirt didn’t do much of that.

The news showed her in the teaser again and then cut away to an ad. Grandma groaned.

“I know you hate that shirt.” Jessica said.

“What shirt? Whatever you were wearing is not a shirt. My underclothes conceal more than that. But it strikes me rather odd that you spent $95 dollars just last week to get your hair cut and highlighted  and then you braid it up like a backwoods hayseed. What’s the point of that?”

Jessica grinned. “It fits the image of the oppressed. That’s who I’m representing.”

“If you’re undertaking an acting career, you should go to Hollywood. At least they pay their extras.”

“A lot you know. The university pays us too. It’s enough that I quit my job.”

Grandma did survey her directly then. Jessica felt her eyes on her as the full story ran on the 90 inch screen. She was staring at her instead of watching the interview. Jessica used the remote that was built into the theater seat to replay it twice. But Grandma had gone out. The girl hit ‘save’ on the DVR and floated down the long, curved stairs.

Grandma and the downstairs maid were in the tea room. To Jessica’s astonishment, they were packing the elaborate silver tea set that had been in the family for longer than Jessica could remember.

“What are you doing?”

“I made a decision.” Grandma said. “I’ve always intended for this old tea set to go to you. Do you remember when we used to have tea parties when you were a little girl?”

“Yes Grandma, I remember.”

“Well, we can’t very well have tea parties any more, when you have such strong words against such things.” Her mouth returned to a grim line as she packed the silver set.

“I decided to give you the tea set now. For you to do with as you see fit. Perhaps what you find in having it will help you to understand yourself and your own principles.”

“I don’t want it,” Jessica said. “I went to the thrift store recently with a friend and there are two or three sets like it. Everybody is seeing the hypocrisy of the Tea Party and symbolically giving away their tea sets.”

“I doubt very much that there were sets like this one in the Thrift store,” Grandma said sternly. “And so you understand, the contents of this box represent the final total of the inheritance you will receive from me. It’s a valuable set and after paying your college tuition and room and board for four years, this will be your total share.”

Jessica allowed the groundskeeper to load the heavy box into the trunk of her Honda CRV. What was she supposed to do with a tea set?  Grandma could be a spiteful old woman. She was probably mad because she’d quit her job. The job was a stipulation for getting the college paid for.

“In for a dime, in for a dollar,” Jessica said aloud. Why did Grandma have to be so frowning on the day of her television debut?

She dropped the box off at the thrift store donation center on her way back to the dorm.

It was a week later that she happened to see the same news reporter that had interviewed her, interviewing a woman named Sally Jennings. Jessica listened because it was the same reporter.

“I went to the thrift store to try to find an outfit to wear to my interview. I wanted the job so bad, we just couldn’t make ends meet with my husband out of work. I saw a bunch of tea sets on the high shelf, but this one looked different.  They got it down for me and it didn’t have the “sterling” or ‘925’ on it, but a lion.  But it was so heavy and it just felt like sterling. So I spent the last fifty dollars I had and bought the set. Then I found out that the lion is better than the other.”

The reporter questioned her further and she held up Jessica’s old family tea pot.

Jessica gasped. This is a valuable set. It was like Grandma to understate things. Jessica tuned her ears for detail.
“I put it up on Ebay,” the woman said. “The bidding is over a hundred grand so far, and the appraised value is more than that. Antique English sterling is pretty rare.”

More questions. The woman didn’t get the job because she wasn’t properly dressed. They were going to pay off their mortgage first when the money came from the silver.  No, the thrift store had no record of who had donated it.  No she wouldn’t return it if someone claimed they’d donated it on accident. Yes she would have returned it if it was stolen but she’d checked with the police and it wasn’t reported. Now it was too late.

Jessica’s phone buzzed. Grandma had sent a text. “I think I recognize my old tea set?”

Jessica didn’t reply. Another text came in.  “Protest cancelled 4 rest of the month due to high temp 4-cast. Pick up check at usual time.”

Jessica skipped her two o clock class. She locked herself into her private dorm room and buried her face in her pillow as she punched the Teddy bear grandma had given her when she was ten. “Not fair! Not fair! Not fair!” She wailed. 

The bear stared impassively back, unmoved, unsurprised and disinterested.  

Saturday Morning short: Rescue

June 23, 2012
I recently attended a Sacrament meeting in Utah. It was the monthly “testimony” meeting, where members of the congregation map relate experiences or share testimony of Jesus Christ. One woman stood to tell an inspiring story.
She had recently made what seemed to be an annual visit to Ghana. My son explained that she teaches at BYU and likely went on some sort of humanitarian project. I had the impression that they return annually to the same area.
This year, they went during the monsoon season. The river on which their village is built sustained damage to it’s bed and as a result, nearby villages flooded. The water rose 18 feet and many of the villagers were stranded. 
The branch president made the rounds to the members of his branch and assured himself that all had made it to safety.
The branch also has a missionary “mentor” couple (the Daltons) who live there to train the leadership and to help organize the branches properly.When Elder Dalton heard that the members were all safe, he suggested that the branch president and he go out to look for others that might be in need of assistance. 
As the branch president, (a native of Ghana) and  Elder Dalton surveyed the flood, they noticed a woman with her baby, clinging to a tree, far out in the stream. Elder Dalton said, “We better rescue her.” The branch president agreed, and they set out into the flood. 
Before too long, Elder Dalton realized that the branch president was no longer swimming along beside him, so he grabbed a tree and yelled for him.
“I am coming” the young man replied. “Wait for me! I’m three trees back.”
Before long, the branch president splashed into view and they proceeded together to the stranded mother and child.
The branch president held the baby while Elder Dalton helped her mother to safety and then returned for the baby. Once safe, the woman scampered away to her friends. Elder Dalton stood on the banks, waiting for the branch president to appear.
At last he saw him, struggling through the flood.
“Why didn’t you tell me that you didn’t know how to swim?” Elder Dalton asked.
The young branch president shrugged. “You are my leader. If the Lord tells you that we must rescue, then we must rescue. The fact that I don’t know how to swim is not important.”
I don’t have that much faith. But I want it and I am grateful to a young branch president.

Saturday Morning Short Story: Emily

June 16, 2012
A question on facebook sparked this story. Only literary folk are likely to enjoy it, but then again, that’s the majority of the C.C.C. audience.

“Emily”

Dear Lavinia,

I have included the details of my adventure here in Concord in as much detail as I can provide. I hope for your sympathy and mercy when you learn how badly I have gone awry.
The heavy air seemed to have exhausted the mosquitoes on that summer morning after a week in Concord, Massachusetts. The road apples left by the passage of the morning milk cart horses lay fuming on the cobbles. Yesterday’s wash drooped on clotheslines all along my route, too wet to bring in. Flies landed on the brim of my straw hat, attracted by the flowers and too weary from the sultry day to proceed to their slop-bowl destinations. I blessed my decision to wear only white, fashion being the opposite, with the day so hot.
But I couldn’t wait another day at the cottage I had rented near the bottom of the road into Concord. The place was said to be crawling with poets and scholars and philosophers, and I only had a three- month- lease to meet them all.   I felt so brave and venturesome, but I knew that it would not last and I would pull in my head, like a turtle to its shell, if I didn’t have immediate success.
But I had not anticipated the problem I had now. Emerson was apparently not in the habit of wearing a name tag. His friends, H.D. Thoreau and Walt Whitman might be lounging in his parlor this very minute, but how would I know it?
I stepped carefully along the walk, studying each house as I passed, searching for clues about the people that lived in them. I was well into the town now. A beggar-man with holes in the knees of his trousers and his two shirt buttons clinging desperately across his thin chest stepped from the Mercantile with a new trowel in his hand. His  matted hair seemed to move of its own accord  as the vermin turned over in bed. His bristly neck beard made me itch just to look at it, and I wondered if it might not be better placed on his cheeks and lip to distract from his hollow cheeks and long pointed nose.  His odor watered my eyes better than a good Sunday sermon. (Although, I must admit that for me, it is a weak comparison.) I pulled my skirt well clear lest any of his self-contained eco-system detach itself onto me.
“They ought to do something about the drunks and bums if they hope to keep their cottages rented or the intellectual elite gathering here.” I spoke out loud, I suppose to make a point if the man was in ear shot.  If he heard, he made no response. Oh Levinia, you know I am no prude, but I felt so contrary in the heat. How often have I made a rude remark for the sake of social obligations? How I rue those words!
I stopped outside a many-gabled house where a man sat on the covered porch reading a newspaper. I had seen pictures of R.W. Emerson, and I was 60% sure that this was him. I wracked my brain for an excuse to speak to him as I stood gaping. I suppose my pointed staring pricked his awareness. He lowered the paper for a moment, met my gaze with steely rebuke, and turned his back toward me.
I trudged further, knowing the futility of my pursuit, but hoping that my fortunes might change. The lobelia straggled from a flower box, as limp as prisoners of war. Cosmos and coneflowers sagged their overheated leaves and bowed their heads as they prayed for cooling rain.
I stopped in the shade of an ancient oak, pressing as close to it as I could over the fence. “This old oak knows something of the summer heat,” I said. “Yet offers me rest under it’s dark, cool skirt.”
I heard a faint chuckle from behind the tree. I could just see the end of a mossy bench on the back side of tree and the laughter seemed to come from someone, sitting there. I wanted to run away, but remembered it was my day of courage.  “Is there someone there?” I asked.
Perfect stillness answered me.
“Then it is the tree nymph that laughed and will not now show herself.”
A woman stepped into view, though the gloom under the tree was so deep that I could not see her features well. She seemed dressed in the simplest blouse and plainest skirt imaginable. Her heavy, wavy hair successfully escaped a half-hearted attempt to subdue it. Her coarse, expressive features boasted no beauty and her lumpish figure would claim no notice.
“A tree nymph indeed,” she said. “I admit that I was transported by own thoughts and it took a moment for your comment to register.”
“Will you give me your name?”
“It’s Louisa,” she said. Her deep, full, voice resonated almost like a man’s. “Are you new to our pretty, little Concord?  Do you come to be transported to perfection by our transcendental ideas or to be smothered by our clinging, cloying summer air?” She glanced at the sewing she had draped over her arm. It seemed to be the bodice of a dress for a woman much smaller than my new friend, “Louisa.’
“I think the former. I’d saved all my money to come here for a summer and be baptized by immersion in the literary culture.”
“So you’re a writer then?”
“More of a poet, I suppose. But how does one know when one is a writer? Nothing much of mine has ever been published. But that might be because I’ve never dare to send my work to anyone that might publish it. So I write, yes, but I hesitate to call myself a writer.”
“I know what you mean,” Louisa said. “Today, I sew, but I am not pretentious enough to call myself a seamstress.” The glance that fell on the silk bodice was anything but fond.
“Perhaps you can tell me where Mr. Emerson’s home is. I think I saw him as he read his morning paper, but I wasn’t sure and he didn’t seem very friendly.”
A strange, half smiling look passed over the woman’s face as she described the home and man I had seen exactly.
“So do you know him yourself?” I asked.
“Yes, I know him,” she said softly. “He’s a man full of brilliant ideas and a high opinion of them.”
“Is he arrogant?’
“No, just extremely confident. And generally good-hearted.   She turned toward the house that nestled in the deep shade.
“Thank you for speaking with me!” I cried. I wanted to go with her and find out who else she knew and perhaps have a greater insight into the thinkers of that little town. But I felt from her walk that she was tired of my company, and I turned away from the heavy shade, both glad to know that I had seen the great R.W. Emerson, but sorry that the interview with my informant had been so short.
The postman approached the gate I had just forsaken. “I see you met Miss Alcott,” he said. Until that moment, I had not remembered that Louisa Alcott lived in Concord! How could I have forgotten it?  I stared hard at the postman, who dismissed me with a glance. But I saw that his direction lay toward the Emerson home so I followed him.
Just as we approached the Philosopher’s walk, the scruffy hobo I had seen coming from the mercantile turned in at his gate. “Good morning Mr. Thoreau. I have a letter for you, somewhere in this bag.”
The hobo took the letter and saluted me with a nod. There was something in his face that told me that he had heard me speak of him earlier.
I rushed back to my rented cottage , already as hot as an oven and spent the rest of that unholy day bawling into my lemonade.
I never saw any of my three idols after that day. The summer continued unbearably hot and I think they visited cooler climes after that. So this is to explain, dear Sister, why nothing came of my “literary journey.” My scribbles continue to fill boxes and drawers but I know that none of it is likely to see daylight. I am not a girl of courage, and I shrink when I consider the giants of our time. And as is my usual way, I have been too loquacious in this epistle and will now put you out of your misery,
Your loving Sister,
Emily Dickinson    

%d bloggers like this: