The sun rose the next morning, exposing a world that had gone unnoticed to Anne the night before. Emerging from the tent, she felt surprisingly refreshed.
Daniel had already awoken, she could tell because the fire was going and his blankets were neatly folded and placed at the foot of his bed. A pot of thick black coffee had been brewed and she poured a cup for herself.
Sitting down she surveyed the lay of the land, it seemed a world of organized chaos.
Cars parked on the property were filled to overflowing with supplies. Pots and pans, old mattresses, and blankets, cardboard, and even empty bottles that people couldn’t seem to part with for one reason or another. Everything she saw seemed worn out ten times over and dirty down to its core. Tents were pitched next to cars, which housed entire families of up to nine or ten. There were goats tied up to cars which were kept by the travelers for milk.
Anne Sylvia and Daniel joined the others, picking and prepping apples for shipment into the city. By mid afternoon the sun was high in the sky and the air is hot and heavy.
Sweat and dirt lay on Anne’s brow and mantle, and the moisture gathers dust. Her fine fingers and watchful eyes grazed the boughs as she picks. She was careful and treated each fruit as a delicate jewel. Setting each apple in the sack which she carries. Her movements are methodical and she seems calm as she works.
Although the day is hot and there is plenty of work to be done, she has grown accustomed to far more intense work and the picking is quite a vacation from her duties at home.
Daniel watches her as he carries crates from here to there. He is entranced by her peace as she works. He has been caught several times staring at her, not only by other workers, but by Anne herself. Maybe it was the heat but he didn’t seem to care. He imagined that she would be aghast by the sight of herself, but on the contrary, he found her quite lovely. Her hair was disheveled, windblown and falling around the curves of her face. Her lips slightly pursed with the focus on the task at hand. Skin tawny and glowing from sun, sweat and dirt. If there was one thing that stirred him the most it was her ease. He wanted to know what calmed her so, and kept staring, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mystery behind her peace, which made her so lovely.
Dan was busy working beneath his cap. Anne was glad to have the job she did. Seeing the boys lifting and loading the way they were reminded her of all the work that awaited her when she arrived home. But for now she would not think on that. Light work like this was something to be grateful for and she allowed herself to melt into the simplicity of the task at hand.
Still, Dan worked, not letting up. He must have been burning, she thought. His shirt was now fully saturated with perspiration. She lowered her eyes as she noticed his form beneath his clinging shirt. He removed his outer layer as if on cue with her thoughts. She could feel herself blushing as she allowed herself to glance at his frame. The motion of his body was evident to her now. He had a strong physique, which bowed and flexed as he worked. Her eyes followed the line from the width of his shoulders, tapering down to his to his waist and below. His black hair was completely unattended to and looked as though it would be soft to the touch. She thought she had caught his dark eyes peering up at her from underneath his heavy brow more than once. She liked his gaze when it met hers and once or twice she let a moment linger between the two of them before she gave a calm smile and looked away, as if forcing decency.
She liked watching him work. It seemed to suit his nature. His hands were strong and large with deep blue veins.
He was handsome and kind. Deep down she enjoyed his wit and the way he teased, it allowed her the opportunity do the same back to him and she enjoyed that.
She wondered what it would be like to be the wife of a man like Daniel. She imagined being driven mad by his taunting and teasing. Wonderful madness that would lead to things that made her blush as she imagined them while she worked.
She felt strange having him near, comforted almost. She could feel-see him moving around her, and watched him from her periphery.
It felt good to entertain these thoughts. She remembered the first night she saw him in the cellar of the conservatory. For a brief moment that night she had thought he was a handsome patron of the society; some rustic outdoorsman with an affinity for things that grew. What a perfect match that would have been! If only he were a botanist, she thought. But, he was not that. All his strength and good looks couldn’t change the fact that he was at best a swarthy, quick witted, passionate, bootlegger.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Into the evening, when the preparation of the meal is finished, the five have gathered back in the kitchen to eat. Joined by the Studeman’s five children, they sit around the table. Drinks are poured and refilled.
Sylvia, Anne and Christina have found their places among one another and are united. Dan, Michael and Joe are pleasantly drunk and settled in, bellies full of good food, there is ease and conversation around the table.
The children are drifting, young ones hanging on Christina she brings them into their bedroom for sleep.
Music is being played around a fire nearby. A boy who plays the harmonica quite proficiently for someone his age joined a banjo player and a guitarist. Improvising a lively tune, a small crowed gathers around them. People clapped along and tapped their feet and let out a hoot of approval when a solo was particularly sent. Sylvia surveyed the scene and wore the expression of a woman who had arrived home.
Anne was trying to picture where they would sleep, and how they would wash. She was not a good cook and wouldn’t know where to begin to know how to cook on an open campfire she was beginning to feel anxious already.
Daniel saw Anne worried expression and began to set up their site immediately. He was in his element, outdoors, and was eager to make provisions to make a comfortable place for the three of them.
Sylvia, Anne and Christina have found their places among one another and are united. Dan, Michael and Joe are pleasantly drunk and settled in, bellies full of good food, there is ease and conversation around the table.
The children are drifting, young ones hanging on Christina she brings them into their bedroom for sleep.
Music is being played around a fire nearby. A boy who plays the harmonica quite proficiently for someone his age joined a banjo player and a guitarist. Improvising a lively tune, a small crowed gathers around them. People clapped along and tapped their feet and let out a hoot of approval when a solo was particularly sent. Sylvia surveyed the scene and wore the expression of a woman who had arrived home.
Anne was trying to picture where they would sleep, and how they would wash. She was not a good cook and wouldn’t know where to begin to know how to cook on an open campfire she was beginning to feel anxious already.
Daniel saw Anne worried expression and began to set up their site immediately. He was in his element, outdoors, and was eager to make provisions to make a comfortable place for the three of them.
At the Apple Orchard
At the Apple Orchard
Daniel was eager to get to the Apple Orchard, he was comfortable at Michael’s and was feeling quite ill at ease and not quite sure why. By now, he decided, he had been around these women long enough and was in need of a stiff drink and a chew to spit.
They arrived late Sunday evening. The sun had already set. The air was warm and dry with a smell of hickory smoke and bacon. Stew was being prepared at a nearby campfire. There were families camping in the open field just off from the main house.
Harvest was in full swing and the boughs on the apple trees hung low, heavy with fruit.
Mingled with the hickory smoke and bacon that hung in the air, was the crisp smell of apples that had fallen to the ground releasing the pungent aroma of their fermenting sweetness into the warm late-summer air.
A man from the porch of the main house let out a loud whistle followed by,
“Danny boy!”
As he sprang to his feet and hopped down to greet his friend. Walking to Dan he took his hand and embraced him with a warm hug the way brothers do.
“Glad you’re here Dan. I was a afraid you may have run into some trouble up north, I expected you a bit earlier.” Glancing at Sylvia and Anne.
“And just whom have you brought with you this fine evening?”
Removing his hat
”Ladies.”
“Ah yes Michael, these are some very good friends of mine.” Daniel began. “This is Mrs. Sylvia Breslyn.”
Michael takes Sylvia’s hand in both of his and winks at her.
“And this here is Miss Anne Hibbert.”
Michael, raises an eyebrow flashing Daniel a glance as he says, “Well Miss Hibbert, I am pleased to make your acquaintance”.
From behind Michael a woman’s voice calls to him “Michael,is that Dan and Joe Lavery?”
Michael draws his attention up to the porch and calls back, “Yes Christina, The’re here.”
Waving Dan up to the house.
“Dan, come up here, will you? And bring that husband of mine with you so I have something nice to look at while I fix us some dinner!”
Michael raises his eyebrows and pulling on his suspenders gleefully. “My wife Christina…she has a fine appetite indeed!”
Dan and Sylvia chuckle and Anne blushes, but smiles. All four walk up to the house. Upon arriving, Michael opens the door for his guests. He is the last to enter, lowering his suspenders as though becoming less formal.
Dan walks into the kitchen and is met by Christina. She is a shorter woman, and looks at least ten years younger than Michael. Her hair is swept up casually with strands falling around her shoulders. Her skin has a pleasant light olive color to it, which glows in the heat of the evening. She opens her arms to embrace him.
“Dan, welcome. You look well.” Noticing Anne and Sylvia. “Oh well, who have you brought with you?”
Daniel makes the introductions as he did with Michael.
“Wont you have a seat?” Christina offers, pointing to the table and chairs as they enter the kitchen.
As Daniel and Anne sit, Michael pulls five cup from the shelf above the sink. He fills them with something from a barrel in the corner of his kitchen and distributes the cups around the room to each person. Dan immediately takes the glass and sips from it, Anne takes a sip as well.
Sylvia remains standing. As usual she is only comfortable when she is busy and looks around the kitchen for something to do.
While Christina rolls dough for a pie, she looks up at Sylvia and asks intuitively, “Do you know how to make apple pie?”
Sylvia gives her a smile, asking, “Where do you keep your knives?”
Sizing her up, “Second drawer down”
Sylvia goes to the drawer, gets the knife, and immediately begins peeling apples for the pie. Christina continues rolling the dough.
Realizing that Sylvia has joined Christina, Anne suddenly feels awkward.
“How do you like the punch Anne?” Michael asks.
“Is that what this is?” Anne replies as she takes another sip.
“Yeah that’s what it is…and you can drink as much as you like my dear.” He teases, winking at Dan.
Realizing her husband is having a bit of fun at the poor girls expense Christina adds,
“My husband fancies himself for quite the master brewer, Anne. Trouble is he drinks so much of the stuff himself, that there’s seldom enough left for anyone else to give him an honest opinion on its quality.
In his own defense, “I do not drink that much!”
“Michael Studdeman, I am 38 years old, and in perfect health. It’s been four years since our last child during which time you have taken to drinking far more then your share. I happen to find that to be a strange coincidence don’t you? If it’s not the drink sir then what is the cause?”
Sylvia and Daniel are delighted by this display. Daniel points at Michael and bellows, as Sylvia wrinkles her nose and laughs heartily as she slices apples. Christina winks at Anne and gives her a steadying nod.
Although Michaels pride is somewhat hurt, there is simply not enough truth to what she has said to do any real damage, but he plays along anyhow.
“Well I suppose it couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the fact that my wife is a wicked shrew of a woman now would it?”
Rising to leave, he pulls up his suspenders. “Well I suppose that, that is all the humiliation I can endure for now. Daniel, would you care to join me outdoors?”
Dan rises as well. He follows Michael calling behind him to the kitchen, “I’ll see that he doesn’t drink too much tonight, Christina!”
“Aw, to hell with him Dan!” Christina calls back. The ladies laugh and continue with their work.
Daniel was eager to get to the Apple Orchard, he was comfortable at Michael’s and was feeling quite ill at ease and not quite sure why. By now, he decided, he had been around these women long enough and was in need of a stiff drink and a chew to spit.
They arrived late Sunday evening. The sun had already set. The air was warm and dry with a smell of hickory smoke and bacon. Stew was being prepared at a nearby campfire. There were families camping in the open field just off from the main house.
Harvest was in full swing and the boughs on the apple trees hung low, heavy with fruit.
Mingled with the hickory smoke and bacon that hung in the air, was the crisp smell of apples that had fallen to the ground releasing the pungent aroma of their fermenting sweetness into the warm late-summer air.
A man from the porch of the main house let out a loud whistle followed by,
“Danny boy!”
As he sprang to his feet and hopped down to greet his friend. Walking to Dan he took his hand and embraced him with a warm hug the way brothers do.
“Glad you’re here Dan. I was a afraid you may have run into some trouble up north, I expected you a bit earlier.” Glancing at Sylvia and Anne.
“And just whom have you brought with you this fine evening?”
Removing his hat
”Ladies.”
“Ah yes Michael, these are some very good friends of mine.” Daniel began. “This is Mrs. Sylvia Breslyn.”
Michael takes Sylvia’s hand in both of his and winks at her.
“And this here is Miss Anne Hibbert.”
Michael, raises an eyebrow flashing Daniel a glance as he says, “Well Miss Hibbert, I am pleased to make your acquaintance”.
From behind Michael a woman’s voice calls to him “Michael,is that Dan and Joe Lavery?”
Michael draws his attention up to the porch and calls back, “Yes Christina, The’re here.”
Waving Dan up to the house.
“Dan, come up here, will you? And bring that husband of mine with you so I have something nice to look at while I fix us some dinner!”
Michael raises his eyebrows and pulling on his suspenders gleefully. “My wife Christina…she has a fine appetite indeed!”
Dan and Sylvia chuckle and Anne blushes, but smiles. All four walk up to the house. Upon arriving, Michael opens the door for his guests. He is the last to enter, lowering his suspenders as though becoming less formal.
Dan walks into the kitchen and is met by Christina. She is a shorter woman, and looks at least ten years younger than Michael. Her hair is swept up casually with strands falling around her shoulders. Her skin has a pleasant light olive color to it, which glows in the heat of the evening. She opens her arms to embrace him.
“Dan, welcome. You look well.” Noticing Anne and Sylvia. “Oh well, who have you brought with you?”
Daniel makes the introductions as he did with Michael.
“Wont you have a seat?” Christina offers, pointing to the table and chairs as they enter the kitchen.
As Daniel and Anne sit, Michael pulls five cup from the shelf above the sink. He fills them with something from a barrel in the corner of his kitchen and distributes the cups around the room to each person. Dan immediately takes the glass and sips from it, Anne takes a sip as well.
Sylvia remains standing. As usual she is only comfortable when she is busy and looks around the kitchen for something to do.
While Christina rolls dough for a pie, she looks up at Sylvia and asks intuitively, “Do you know how to make apple pie?”
Sylvia gives her a smile, asking, “Where do you keep your knives?”
Sizing her up, “Second drawer down”
Sylvia goes to the drawer, gets the knife, and immediately begins peeling apples for the pie. Christina continues rolling the dough.
Realizing that Sylvia has joined Christina, Anne suddenly feels awkward.
“How do you like the punch Anne?” Michael asks.
“Is that what this is?” Anne replies as she takes another sip.
“Yeah that’s what it is…and you can drink as much as you like my dear.” He teases, winking at Dan.
Realizing her husband is having a bit of fun at the poor girls expense Christina adds,
“My husband fancies himself for quite the master brewer, Anne. Trouble is he drinks so much of the stuff himself, that there’s seldom enough left for anyone else to give him an honest opinion on its quality.
In his own defense, “I do not drink that much!”
“Michael Studdeman, I am 38 years old, and in perfect health. It’s been four years since our last child during which time you have taken to drinking far more then your share. I happen to find that to be a strange coincidence don’t you? If it’s not the drink sir then what is the cause?”
Sylvia and Daniel are delighted by this display. Daniel points at Michael and bellows, as Sylvia wrinkles her nose and laughs heartily as she slices apples. Christina winks at Anne and gives her a steadying nod.
Although Michaels pride is somewhat hurt, there is simply not enough truth to what she has said to do any real damage, but he plays along anyhow.
“Well I suppose it couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the fact that my wife is a wicked shrew of a woman now would it?”
Rising to leave, he pulls up his suspenders. “Well I suppose that, that is all the humiliation I can endure for now. Daniel, would you care to join me outdoors?”
Dan rises as well. He follows Michael calling behind him to the kitchen, “I’ll see that he doesn’t drink too much tonight, Christina!”
“Aw, to hell with him Dan!” Christina calls back. The ladies laugh and continue with their work.
Michael's Apples
Michael worked well into the night in his barn He was a passionate craftsman and more of an artist, but he was not a fan of titles and pretension and insisted that his craft was merely a hobby.
On his hikes he would locate and collect burls to make into fine bowls, and tabletops to sell in town and in the city when he needed money.
Michael hated the idea of hiring help to harvest the apple crop every year. He dreaded any task that required too much organization and detail. So, in place of hiring a crew to pick his apples and sell them in the city, he simply put a sign out in the front of his driveway that said:
“APPLES. YOU PICK. CHEAP!”
The method seemed to attract plenty of folks who were passing through. Though he made a considerable amount less than he would have had he run his orchard like any other farmer, it was less nonsense and therefore good enough for him.
Most of the money he made from the apples came from the cider he brewed on his property. It wasn’t nearly as strong as the hard stuff most people in the city liked to drink, but it was good for a buzz and most of his customers were his friends and neighbors there on the island. They would stop in for a visit, share a meal and have a walk. Michael always shared a sample of the brew. Finally they would load a barrel onto their truck, pay him, and bid their host a good day.
He had also opened his property to folks who needed a place to camp, for a small fee of course.
He didn’t like charging folks to stay but he found that if he didn’t, they would never leave. He also didn’t want to play host to any less than savory characters. He was keen on welcoming other families to stay. He and Christina had five children of their own, and the company of other children was good for them.
He liked hard working folks who enjoyed evenings around the fire playing music and telling stories and fixing good things to eat together.
Usually during the day folks would pick together and share the chores around the property according to their abilities. Families fixed their own meals each day and fed their own families. Those who had food, shared with those who didn’t. Things were simple.
On Sunday’s the families would pool the goods that they had and cook a feast that would be shared by all. By sundown the children would drift off to sleep. The men would gather around the fire, crack-open a jug and pass it around.
In the past year, men began the tradition of sharing tales of their prosperity before the crash just one year ago. They would generally nod in silent understanding when a newcomer told of his recent misfortunes, shaking his head as he spoke like he was still trying to make heads or tales of the tragedies his family was being made to endure.
Because of this, Michael Studdemn’s apple orchard had accidentally become a place of healing for some and hope for others.
There was brightness about the place that made a person feel at home and grateful all at the same time.
On his hikes he would locate and collect burls to make into fine bowls, and tabletops to sell in town and in the city when he needed money.
Michael hated the idea of hiring help to harvest the apple crop every year. He dreaded any task that required too much organization and detail. So, in place of hiring a crew to pick his apples and sell them in the city, he simply put a sign out in the front of his driveway that said:
“APPLES. YOU PICK. CHEAP!”
The method seemed to attract plenty of folks who were passing through. Though he made a considerable amount less than he would have had he run his orchard like any other farmer, it was less nonsense and therefore good enough for him.
Most of the money he made from the apples came from the cider he brewed on his property. It wasn’t nearly as strong as the hard stuff most people in the city liked to drink, but it was good for a buzz and most of his customers were his friends and neighbors there on the island. They would stop in for a visit, share a meal and have a walk. Michael always shared a sample of the brew. Finally they would load a barrel onto their truck, pay him, and bid their host a good day.
He had also opened his property to folks who needed a place to camp, for a small fee of course.
He didn’t like charging folks to stay but he found that if he didn’t, they would never leave. He also didn’t want to play host to any less than savory characters. He was keen on welcoming other families to stay. He and Christina had five children of their own, and the company of other children was good for them.
He liked hard working folks who enjoyed evenings around the fire playing music and telling stories and fixing good things to eat together.
Usually during the day folks would pick together and share the chores around the property according to their abilities. Families fixed their own meals each day and fed their own families. Those who had food, shared with those who didn’t. Things were simple.
On Sunday’s the families would pool the goods that they had and cook a feast that would be shared by all. By sundown the children would drift off to sleep. The men would gather around the fire, crack-open a jug and pass it around.
In the past year, men began the tradition of sharing tales of their prosperity before the crash just one year ago. They would generally nod in silent understanding when a newcomer told of his recent misfortunes, shaking his head as he spoke like he was still trying to make heads or tales of the tragedies his family was being made to endure.
Because of this, Michael Studdemn’s apple orchard had accidentally become a place of healing for some and hope for others.
There was brightness about the place that made a person feel at home and grateful all at the same time.
Michael Studdeman's star formation
There was only one dusty road going through Whidbey Island. On either side there were golden rolling fields, beyond were sparse wooded areas. Small paths hardly big enough for a car to pass through were dappled along side the highway. Such paths were the driveways of the homesteads which were nestled along the Island.
Most who lived on Whidbey liked to keep to themselves. Music, a good brew, the company of honest folks was the aim. They were artists, writers, fishermen, distillers and farmers. That is not to say that they didn’t enjoy the company of others; they perhaps found the city and all it’s “color” a noisome distraction of the far simpler things they preferred. They had room enough for their children to grow and play without being told what to think and say by governmental institutions who had already decided that mandatory public education systems were far superior to good honest work on the family farm.
Most people on the island were self-sufficient. Mr. Michael Studdeman in particular took pride in telling folks that there were only three things he spent money on: Sugar, coffee, and yeast. Everything else he claimed he grew, killed, caught or built with his own two hands.
The topic of self sufficiency came up a lot in his home, most frequently when he had company. Michael would hold up both arms,flex his muscles in a show of strength proclaiming “What do I need that these two beauties can’t make for me”?
The joke of course was that Michael was a tall, rail thin man with scrawny limbs.
His wife, Christina, was a round, short, petite woman, who fit perfectly under his arm. She would chuckle, roll her eyes and lovingly play along, “Oh Michael! That’s why I married you. Nothing but Muscle and charm on this one.” She would add, winking at the present company.
He would then reach his long skinny arm out toward her pull her near and whisper, “All brawn, no brain…eh love…?” patting her bottom as she bashfully walked away.
He and his family lived on 15 acres, most of which was covered with apple trees. He was a joyful soul whose tendencies boarded on the side of lunacy from time to time, (particularly when he had consumed too much whiskey).
On several occasions his wife had go out looking for him well past midnight. She often found him stark naked with an empty bottle in his hand, far off from the house on a rock he referred to as The Moonlight Café. He was never an unkind drunk, just untamed. Christina, feigned irritation on nights like that, but deep down she knew he needed her and she didn’t mind dotting on him.
She would find him on the rock wearing only his boots, face down, with his arms and legs spread out in a position he belligerently referred to as the “Star formation”.
The first time she found him like this she was shocked. His arms and legs were spread so widely that it looked unnatural. He seemed to be attempting to make his limbs lay perpendicularly. Looking down on him with her hands on her hips she demanded, “Michael Studdemen WHAT on earth has come over you?”
Without moving or looking up, he drunkenly responded, “It’s a tribute my love. I call it the 'Star formation'. Do you like it?”
Shaking her head, afraid to ask, and yet how could she not? “What are you talking about Michael?”
It was difficult to make out his entire theory behind what he referred to as “The Star formation”. He slurred his words and his face was still smashed in the moss of the rock as he spoke. Somewhere in between the heartfelt mumbles and enthusiastic proclamations of a drunken zealot she made out the following statements: “…Thousands of years…going about our days…thankless to the moon and stars…ashamed of ourselves…perfectly placed my limbs...North, South, East, West... so you see," raising his head to look at her,"it’s the least I can do Christina…” Attempting caused his head to spin making him vomit on the mossy pillow where he lay.
When he had finished being sick, his head slumped down next to the massive pile of slop, causing him to be sick all the more.
Christina walked back to the barn to fetch the wheelbarrow and some rope. She pondered getting a blanket for poor Michael, then thought to herself that he didn’t deserve it and would probably vomit on it.
Upon returning to him, it took her a good forty minutes to hoist him into the wheelbarrow. She used the rope underneath the heavy part of his shoulders to lift him.
His head was at the front end which meant that the weight was poorly distributed. When she hit a bump in the path she lost control and the wheelbarrow took a nose dive, plowing Michael's limp body into the ground face first.
On her second attempt, she loaded Michael’s body face up with his head by her hands and feet in the front. Halfway home she heard him start to mumble something.
Then suddenly she felt his hands on her bottom as she walked. She started walking faster. She let out a yelp as he started to nuzzle the top of his head between her legs. At this point he was now softly singing “Danny Boy”, and exhibiting the first sign of arousal just below his waist. Walking faster still, she was just yards from the house. On she tread.
Leaving his left hand on her bum, he raised his right hand to her bosom and gave it a pet. She spotted the water trough just ahead, she was not 50 yards from it.
He nuzzled his head a bit deeper into her loins, a gesture that obviously aroused him because he was somewhere around "high noon" in his nethers. Just at the creshendo of the song,he began raised his voice to full volume while flailing his hips wildly into the night sky.
But alas, the spell was broken. Christina had reached the water trough and swiftly dumped Michael into the freezing water. She then slipped the rope under his arms and fastened him securely to the side. She went inside and fetched some soap and a good coarse scrub brush.
Upon her return he looked at her lovingly and began to recite her a poem. She looked at him squarely and gave his face a swift hard swat.
“Drunk or sober Mr. Studdeman don’t you ever take your liberties with me like that again!”
She began scrubbing him, head first with the coarse soap brush, really working up a good lather. Obviously in pain, he cried “Christina! You’re hurting me. Is that the horse's brush? You’ll take my skin off!”
Without letting up she replied “Good! We’ll scrub the devil out of you! Now hold still!”
Nights like that were few and far between, infrequent enough to be only a minor inconvenience between the two.
Most who lived on Whidbey liked to keep to themselves. Music, a good brew, the company of honest folks was the aim. They were artists, writers, fishermen, distillers and farmers. That is not to say that they didn’t enjoy the company of others; they perhaps found the city and all it’s “color” a noisome distraction of the far simpler things they preferred. They had room enough for their children to grow and play without being told what to think and say by governmental institutions who had already decided that mandatory public education systems were far superior to good honest work on the family farm.
Most people on the island were self-sufficient. Mr. Michael Studdeman in particular took pride in telling folks that there were only three things he spent money on: Sugar, coffee, and yeast. Everything else he claimed he grew, killed, caught or built with his own two hands.
The topic of self sufficiency came up a lot in his home, most frequently when he had company. Michael would hold up both arms,flex his muscles in a show of strength proclaiming “What do I need that these two beauties can’t make for me”?
The joke of course was that Michael was a tall, rail thin man with scrawny limbs.
His wife, Christina, was a round, short, petite woman, who fit perfectly under his arm. She would chuckle, roll her eyes and lovingly play along, “Oh Michael! That’s why I married you. Nothing but Muscle and charm on this one.” She would add, winking at the present company.
He would then reach his long skinny arm out toward her pull her near and whisper, “All brawn, no brain…eh love…?” patting her bottom as she bashfully walked away.
He and his family lived on 15 acres, most of which was covered with apple trees. He was a joyful soul whose tendencies boarded on the side of lunacy from time to time, (particularly when he had consumed too much whiskey).
On several occasions his wife had go out looking for him well past midnight. She often found him stark naked with an empty bottle in his hand, far off from the house on a rock he referred to as The Moonlight Café. He was never an unkind drunk, just untamed. Christina, feigned irritation on nights like that, but deep down she knew he needed her and she didn’t mind dotting on him.
She would find him on the rock wearing only his boots, face down, with his arms and legs spread out in a position he belligerently referred to as the “Star formation”.
The first time she found him like this she was shocked. His arms and legs were spread so widely that it looked unnatural. He seemed to be attempting to make his limbs lay perpendicularly. Looking down on him with her hands on her hips she demanded, “Michael Studdemen WHAT on earth has come over you?”
Without moving or looking up, he drunkenly responded, “It’s a tribute my love. I call it the 'Star formation'. Do you like it?”
Shaking her head, afraid to ask, and yet how could she not? “What are you talking about Michael?”
It was difficult to make out his entire theory behind what he referred to as “The Star formation”. He slurred his words and his face was still smashed in the moss of the rock as he spoke. Somewhere in between the heartfelt mumbles and enthusiastic proclamations of a drunken zealot she made out the following statements: “…Thousands of years…going about our days…thankless to the moon and stars…ashamed of ourselves…perfectly placed my limbs...North, South, East, West... so you see," raising his head to look at her,"it’s the least I can do Christina…” Attempting caused his head to spin making him vomit on the mossy pillow where he lay.
When he had finished being sick, his head slumped down next to the massive pile of slop, causing him to be sick all the more.
Christina walked back to the barn to fetch the wheelbarrow and some rope. She pondered getting a blanket for poor Michael, then thought to herself that he didn’t deserve it and would probably vomit on it.
Upon returning to him, it took her a good forty minutes to hoist him into the wheelbarrow. She used the rope underneath the heavy part of his shoulders to lift him.
His head was at the front end which meant that the weight was poorly distributed. When she hit a bump in the path she lost control and the wheelbarrow took a nose dive, plowing Michael's limp body into the ground face first.
On her second attempt, she loaded Michael’s body face up with his head by her hands and feet in the front. Halfway home she heard him start to mumble something.
Then suddenly she felt his hands on her bottom as she walked. She started walking faster. She let out a yelp as he started to nuzzle the top of his head between her legs. At this point he was now softly singing “Danny Boy”, and exhibiting the first sign of arousal just below his waist. Walking faster still, she was just yards from the house. On she tread.
Leaving his left hand on her bum, he raised his right hand to her bosom and gave it a pet. She spotted the water trough just ahead, she was not 50 yards from it.
He nuzzled his head a bit deeper into her loins, a gesture that obviously aroused him because he was somewhere around "high noon" in his nethers. Just at the creshendo of the song,he began raised his voice to full volume while flailing his hips wildly into the night sky.
But alas, the spell was broken. Christina had reached the water trough and swiftly dumped Michael into the freezing water. She then slipped the rope under his arms and fastened him securely to the side. She went inside and fetched some soap and a good coarse scrub brush.
Upon her return he looked at her lovingly and began to recite her a poem. She looked at him squarely and gave his face a swift hard swat.
“Drunk or sober Mr. Studdeman don’t you ever take your liberties with me like that again!”
She began scrubbing him, head first with the coarse soap brush, really working up a good lather. Obviously in pain, he cried “Christina! You’re hurting me. Is that the horse's brush? You’ll take my skin off!”
Without letting up she replied “Good! We’ll scrub the devil out of you! Now hold still!”
Nights like that were few and far between, infrequent enough to be only a minor inconvenience between the two.
On the way to whidbey
They drove in the cab of the truck. All four of them squeezed in together. Daniel driving and Anne by the window. Joseph and Sylvia are making conversation from the middle seats. Things are rather cordial and pleasant.
“I don’t suppose you’ve been north to Skagit county, have you?” Joseph asks Anne, making polite conversation.
“No, I can’t say that I have.”
“Oh you’re going to love it Anne! There’s lots of farms up there.” A brief silence lingers. “And plenty of good hard working folks…like yourself.”
Daniel adds, teasing. I suppose farms and the like may be too common a thing for Miss Hibbert to care for. Remember Joe, she have quite a sophisticated palate when in comes to things that grow. She only likes things that are hard to come by.
Sylvia, in defense of Anne. “Well I suppose that’s where the two of you are like night and day then Dan!”
Reading himself for the insult. “How’s that?”
Joseph, savy to Sylvia wit, chimes in, holding back laughter. “Because he’ll take whatever you can get his hands on!
Looking at Anne, Sylvia allows a joyful snort of laughter to escape. Joseph’s laughter explodes and he and Sylvia celebrate the well placed and frankly, true insult at Dan’s expense. Anne chuckles a bit then laughs harder with Joe. Daniel shakes his head, looking at the three of them laughing, a lightheartedness suddenly comes over him and he joins in the laughter at his own expense.
The Skagit valley is very fertile due to the frequency of the flooding, from the Skagit River. The locals enjoy fishing and wild berries in the late summer. This late in the season, farms are abundant in squash, corn, onions, potatoes, and apples. To Anne, it seems a haven from the chaos in the city. Of course there is poverty in the Skagit valley. People have lost their farms and businesses, but those who still have land share with those who don’t and farmers trade with one another. There is plenty of space to make and grow things if you are willing to work.
Driving through the county Anne stares at the vast amounts of land covered in uniformed aisles bearing corn and potatoes. There is a hypnotic rhythm she finds in staring at the perfect rows as they whiz by them.
Passing a wheat field, golden, dry and ready for harvest; each swollen, nodding head, crisp and ready for harvest.
Watching the fields change from crop to crop Anne remarks.
“It’s a wonder, with all this abundance that hunger could ever exist at all.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve been north to Skagit county, have you?” Joseph asks Anne, making polite conversation.
“No, I can’t say that I have.”
“Oh you’re going to love it Anne! There’s lots of farms up there.” A brief silence lingers. “And plenty of good hard working folks…like yourself.”
Daniel adds, teasing. I suppose farms and the like may be too common a thing for Miss Hibbert to care for. Remember Joe, she have quite a sophisticated palate when in comes to things that grow. She only likes things that are hard to come by.
Sylvia, in defense of Anne. “Well I suppose that’s where the two of you are like night and day then Dan!”
Reading himself for the insult. “How’s that?”
Joseph, savy to Sylvia wit, chimes in, holding back laughter. “Because he’ll take whatever you can get his hands on!
Looking at Anne, Sylvia allows a joyful snort of laughter to escape. Joseph’s laughter explodes and he and Sylvia celebrate the well placed and frankly, true insult at Dan’s expense. Anne chuckles a bit then laughs harder with Joe. Daniel shakes his head, looking at the three of them laughing, a lightheartedness suddenly comes over him and he joins in the laughter at his own expense.
The Skagit valley is very fertile due to the frequency of the flooding, from the Skagit River. The locals enjoy fishing and wild berries in the late summer. This late in the season, farms are abundant in squash, corn, onions, potatoes, and apples. To Anne, it seems a haven from the chaos in the city. Of course there is poverty in the Skagit valley. People have lost their farms and businesses, but those who still have land share with those who don’t and farmers trade with one another. There is plenty of space to make and grow things if you are willing to work.
Driving through the county Anne stares at the vast amounts of land covered in uniformed aisles bearing corn and potatoes. There is a hypnotic rhythm she finds in staring at the perfect rows as they whiz by them.
Passing a wheat field, golden, dry and ready for harvest; each swollen, nodding head, crisp and ready for harvest.
Watching the fields change from crop to crop Anne remarks.
“It’s a wonder, with all this abundance that hunger could ever exist at all.”
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Sylvia sits around a table of women. All are playing cards and talking. It is a modest but nice home. Sylvia herself seems to be orchestrating the conversation. As the women talk Joseph Lavery walks in and kisses the hostess on the head, greeting her.
“Hello Mother.” Addressing the others, avoiding eye contact with Sylvia. “Ladies.”
The ladies greet Joseph in an affectionate chorus, “Oh yes Joseph, hello!” And so on
Taking her turn, Sylvia glances at Joseph from the corner of her eye, yet continuing to speak to her hostess…Josephs mother. “Isn’t it kind Anna!”
Anna, replying enthusiastically, “Oh yes! Joseph, you make your mother proud son! Kindness before all things…well done son!”
Joseph in vague agreement, unaware that he has walked into a trap. “ Yes mother, the highest of virtues, kindness.
Anna, to the other ladies at the table. “My boys furniture moving business has been doing awfully well lately. Hasn’t it Joseph?
“Why yes mother it has!” Replies Joseph.
Anna, continuing on. “You boys seem to have been making quite a few trips to Anacortes haven’t you?”
Joseph nods
“It must be a nice place to live. How many families would you say have employed the services of the moving company in the past year Joseph?”
Joseph, modest and careful not to divulge too much about the family trade. “ Oh mother it’s difficult to say really.”
“Well, all I know is you boys seem to be up to Anacortes and back again nearly once or twice a month.”
Sylvia, having orchestrated the whole conversation plays the fool to all but Joseph. “My goodness! With the amount of money people pay these days for a full service moving company to move their furniture, you boys must be making out like bandits!”
Looking at Joseph, she cocks her head to one side as if she has trumped him… and that she has.
Anna, unaware and continuing on, “Well son, you do right to the family name, helping Sylvia with her business venture. Heavens knows we can all use any extra help we can get in times like these. Am I right ladies?” To which they all agree with “here, here” and “lords truth”.
“I have a good mind to make the trip with you myself. A bit of work in Apple country this fall sounds wonderful. I do hear Whidbey is lovely this time of year. I’m afraid my health is not what used to be. But I assure you that you and… Anne? Is that her name?”
Sylvia nods, looking at Joseph as the realization comes over him
“Yes well, you will both be in good hands with my boys. Isn’t that right Joseph?”
Joseph, suspecting just what Sylvia has been up to here,
“ Oh yes, Dan and I can handle a pair like those two.”
He scowls at Sylvia as she plays her turn confidently, announcing “Jin.”
She winks at him and smiles. He shakes his head, half smiling. He is both completely put out by her and in awe of her
“Hello Mother.” Addressing the others, avoiding eye contact with Sylvia. “Ladies.”
The ladies greet Joseph in an affectionate chorus, “Oh yes Joseph, hello!” And so on
Taking her turn, Sylvia glances at Joseph from the corner of her eye, yet continuing to speak to her hostess…Josephs mother. “Isn’t it kind Anna!”
Anna, replying enthusiastically, “Oh yes! Joseph, you make your mother proud son! Kindness before all things…well done son!”
Joseph in vague agreement, unaware that he has walked into a trap. “ Yes mother, the highest of virtues, kindness.
Anna, to the other ladies at the table. “My boys furniture moving business has been doing awfully well lately. Hasn’t it Joseph?
“Why yes mother it has!” Replies Joseph.
Anna, continuing on. “You boys seem to have been making quite a few trips to Anacortes haven’t you?”
Joseph nods
“It must be a nice place to live. How many families would you say have employed the services of the moving company in the past year Joseph?”
Joseph, modest and careful not to divulge too much about the family trade. “ Oh mother it’s difficult to say really.”
“Well, all I know is you boys seem to be up to Anacortes and back again nearly once or twice a month.”
Sylvia, having orchestrated the whole conversation plays the fool to all but Joseph. “My goodness! With the amount of money people pay these days for a full service moving company to move their furniture, you boys must be making out like bandits!”
Looking at Joseph, she cocks her head to one side as if she has trumped him… and that she has.
Anna, unaware and continuing on, “Well son, you do right to the family name, helping Sylvia with her business venture. Heavens knows we can all use any extra help we can get in times like these. Am I right ladies?” To which they all agree with “here, here” and “lords truth”.
“I have a good mind to make the trip with you myself. A bit of work in Apple country this fall sounds wonderful. I do hear Whidbey is lovely this time of year. I’m afraid my health is not what used to be. But I assure you that you and… Anne? Is that her name?”
Sylvia nods, looking at Joseph as the realization comes over him
“Yes well, you will both be in good hands with my boys. Isn’t that right Joseph?”
Joseph, suspecting just what Sylvia has been up to here,
“ Oh yes, Dan and I can handle a pair like those two.”
He scowls at Sylvia as she plays her turn confidently, announcing “Jin.”
She winks at him and smiles. He shakes his head, half smiling. He is both completely put out by her and in awe of her
Sylvia and Joseph
Joseph Lavery is unloading his truck in the warehouse. Sylvia is following him as he works.
“So what you’re saying, is that you girls want to come along with us the next time we do a run up to Skagit Huh?” Joseph seems reluctant at the idea of having them.
“That’s right Joe. We just need to tag along is all?” Sylvia replies innocently
“Oh Sylvia, I wasn’t born yesterday, that can’t possibly be all.” Shaking his head. “What are girls scheming?”
Frustrated at his pressing. “We want to buy some apples Joseph. I know there are some small orchards out there on Whidbey. Boys that you know well I might add. Word has it that you Lavery’s have even bought a few barrels of cider from them folks out there to serve at your place.
Suddenly uncomfortable at the mention of business “Hush Sylv.”
“All I’m saying is that it would be a nice gesture for you boys to lend a hand to two struggling dames and few kids looking for some honest work. You boys are out there all the time anyhow, right?”
“Yes, from time to time.”
Going in for the kill now, “From time to time my ass. You boys pick up your spoils right there in old Anacortes nearly every month. It’s no secret Joe!”
Knowing he stands no chance, Sylvia is decided in her intention but he enjoys a good fight “It is a secret, and we want to keep it that way Sylvia. We wouldn’t want to raise suspicion carting along any extra folk with us.”
Sylvia, ever savvy. “Well, I figure that it would be less suspicious to bring two gals along with you. Who would suspect anything was amiss? Especially with a girl the likes of miss Anne.”
Joseph, considering it. “I imagine you two dames would be a classy addition to the operation…but it’s still too dangerous.
Now at her wits end. “We want to sell Apples by the roadside to make a few bucks is all!
It’s a simple request Joe. Shame on you! All the money you boys bring in with you rotten rum running! You ought to be ashamed of yourself! A couple of good honest folks asking for a favor and all you have is this cowardice diffidence…the nerve of you boys.
“I’m sorry Sylvia; it just wouldn’t go over well is all. It’s a dangerous trip as it is. No need to involve a couple of innocents as well… I’m sorry Sylv. My answer is no.”
“So what you’re saying, is that you girls want to come along with us the next time we do a run up to Skagit Huh?” Joseph seems reluctant at the idea of having them.
“That’s right Joe. We just need to tag along is all?” Sylvia replies innocently
“Oh Sylvia, I wasn’t born yesterday, that can’t possibly be all.” Shaking his head. “What are girls scheming?”
Frustrated at his pressing. “We want to buy some apples Joseph. I know there are some small orchards out there on Whidbey. Boys that you know well I might add. Word has it that you Lavery’s have even bought a few barrels of cider from them folks out there to serve at your place.
Suddenly uncomfortable at the mention of business “Hush Sylv.”
“All I’m saying is that it would be a nice gesture for you boys to lend a hand to two struggling dames and few kids looking for some honest work. You boys are out there all the time anyhow, right?”
“Yes, from time to time.”
Going in for the kill now, “From time to time my ass. You boys pick up your spoils right there in old Anacortes nearly every month. It’s no secret Joe!”
Knowing he stands no chance, Sylvia is decided in her intention but he enjoys a good fight “It is a secret, and we want to keep it that way Sylvia. We wouldn’t want to raise suspicion carting along any extra folk with us.”
Sylvia, ever savvy. “Well, I figure that it would be less suspicious to bring two gals along with you. Who would suspect anything was amiss? Especially with a girl the likes of miss Anne.”
Joseph, considering it. “I imagine you two dames would be a classy addition to the operation…but it’s still too dangerous.
Now at her wits end. “We want to sell Apples by the roadside to make a few bucks is all!
It’s a simple request Joe. Shame on you! All the money you boys bring in with you rotten rum running! You ought to be ashamed of yourself! A couple of good honest folks asking for a favor and all you have is this cowardice diffidence…the nerve of you boys.
“I’m sorry Sylvia; it just wouldn’t go over well is all. It’s a dangerous trip as it is. No need to involve a couple of innocents as well… I’m sorry Sylv. My answer is no.”
Apples!
In the heat of summer the air is still and thick. There’s a haze of heat in the atmosphere. Sweetness and dust linger. Bees spread pollen and greedily climb over blossoms of lavender, lily and elderberry. The lush green glory of spring has ended, leaving behind dry and thirsty masses of once thriving vegetation.
Sylvia and Anne mound the potatoes in their small urban garden patch. Sylvia wears a straw hat and has a cigarette hanging from the side of her mouth. Anne has a kerchief covering up her face like a bandit. As they work the earth, more and more dust gathers in the air.
As she finishes her row Sylvia insists, “All right Anne you’ve worked me hard enough today.
Anne lifts her head to look at Sylvia, rolls her eyes and checks her watch.
“Five more minutes Sylvia. It’s not two yet! Keep going, we agreed that two o’clock we would rest”
“Oh I’m on to your tricks there missy; you’re just trying to get me to start another row you see!”
Motioning to her finished row.
“So if I do begin another, two o’clock will roll around and you’ll urge me all the more to finish my row. Next thing you know we’ll have finished all but one row a piece, and you’ll suggest we finish those as well and be done all together!”
Entertained by her accusations. “Why Sylvia I think that’s a great idea!”
“What? You Devil! You’ll be the death of me.”
Finishing her row, working with her head down.
“You’ll work me to the grave you will. You’re just trying’ to get rid of old Sylvia.”
As she finishes.
“I’m on to your tricks missy! Yes ma’am you’ll see no more hard labor from Sylvia Breslyn on this day!”
Tossing her spade down, walking away mumbling something in the same spirit that she has just spouted off. She walks to the front steps where there is iced tea waiting in a pitcher with two glasses. The ice has melted and Sylvia perhaps mumbling about that.
“So Goddamned hot the ice has melted…Jesus and all the Saints…slave driving an old woman all for a heap of potatoes!”
Anne smiles to herself. She has grown accustomed to Sylvia banter. She resumes her work and chuckles as Sylvia mumbles on. As beads of sweat gather and fall off of Anne’s brow, she is content and settled into her work.
“I suppose you’re right Sylv. I think I’ll finish here and be done as well.”
As Anne continues her work a large truck pulls up on their street and parks three lots up. It is loaded with people in the back of the flat bed. As the crowd leaves the vehicle each man or women is carrying a large crate of apples, some even two or three.
Sylvia scowls in curiosity as Anne lean her chin on her spade and looks on at the sight.
The people with the crates disperse this way and that, but one older gentleman stacks his crates one on top of the other and pulls a hand painted sign from the top crate. It reads simply “Apples 5 Cents”
Sylvia gives Anne a look of a cynic. Anne walks over and joins Sylvia on the porch.
Sylvia looks on sipping her drink. “I would like to see who in their right mind would pay that much for an apple.”
While continuing to look on in curiosity, Sylvia douses her tea with whiskey from a hidden flask, and then she takes a straight shot before returning it to her satchel. Sylvia hands Anne a glass of tea, which she has already taken the liberty of “Doctoring up” for her. By this time Anne is used to it. She takes the drink easily. They both watch in amazement as businessmen walk by on their way here or there, all seem to take notice of the old man selling apples. Many buy an apple and those that don’t seem to at least toss him a penny or two, just out of pity sake.
As the day drags on, the children shuffle home from school. Anne and Sylvia continue to watch the man from the window as they prepare dinner. Within two hours he has gone through two crates, which must have brought him at least a couple of dollars.
Sylvia has seen enough; she marches outside with a cup of
Soup and piece of bread. She gives it to the apple vendor.
She talks with him for a few minutes, then bids him goodnight and gathers the dinnerware.
Sylvia, upon entering, joins Anne who is waiting with bated breath for an explanation)
“Apples Anne. That’s all I can tell you. It is so easy and all you need is ten dollars to start up.”
Sylvia and Anne mound the potatoes in their small urban garden patch. Sylvia wears a straw hat and has a cigarette hanging from the side of her mouth. Anne has a kerchief covering up her face like a bandit. As they work the earth, more and more dust gathers in the air.
As she finishes her row Sylvia insists, “All right Anne you’ve worked me hard enough today.
Anne lifts her head to look at Sylvia, rolls her eyes and checks her watch.
“Five more minutes Sylvia. It’s not two yet! Keep going, we agreed that two o’clock we would rest”
“Oh I’m on to your tricks there missy; you’re just trying to get me to start another row you see!”
Motioning to her finished row.
“So if I do begin another, two o’clock will roll around and you’ll urge me all the more to finish my row. Next thing you know we’ll have finished all but one row a piece, and you’ll suggest we finish those as well and be done all together!”
Entertained by her accusations. “Why Sylvia I think that’s a great idea!”
“What? You Devil! You’ll be the death of me.”
Finishing her row, working with her head down.
“You’ll work me to the grave you will. You’re just trying’ to get rid of old Sylvia.”
As she finishes.
“I’m on to your tricks missy! Yes ma’am you’ll see no more hard labor from Sylvia Breslyn on this day!”
Tossing her spade down, walking away mumbling something in the same spirit that she has just spouted off. She walks to the front steps where there is iced tea waiting in a pitcher with two glasses. The ice has melted and Sylvia perhaps mumbling about that.
“So Goddamned hot the ice has melted…Jesus and all the Saints…slave driving an old woman all for a heap of potatoes!”
Anne smiles to herself. She has grown accustomed to Sylvia banter. She resumes her work and chuckles as Sylvia mumbles on. As beads of sweat gather and fall off of Anne’s brow, she is content and settled into her work.
“I suppose you’re right Sylv. I think I’ll finish here and be done as well.”
As Anne continues her work a large truck pulls up on their street and parks three lots up. It is loaded with people in the back of the flat bed. As the crowd leaves the vehicle each man or women is carrying a large crate of apples, some even two or three.
Sylvia scowls in curiosity as Anne lean her chin on her spade and looks on at the sight.
The people with the crates disperse this way and that, but one older gentleman stacks his crates one on top of the other and pulls a hand painted sign from the top crate. It reads simply “Apples 5 Cents”
Sylvia gives Anne a look of a cynic. Anne walks over and joins Sylvia on the porch.
Sylvia looks on sipping her drink. “I would like to see who in their right mind would pay that much for an apple.”
While continuing to look on in curiosity, Sylvia douses her tea with whiskey from a hidden flask, and then she takes a straight shot before returning it to her satchel. Sylvia hands Anne a glass of tea, which she has already taken the liberty of “Doctoring up” for her. By this time Anne is used to it. She takes the drink easily. They both watch in amazement as businessmen walk by on their way here or there, all seem to take notice of the old man selling apples. Many buy an apple and those that don’t seem to at least toss him a penny or two, just out of pity sake.
As the day drags on, the children shuffle home from school. Anne and Sylvia continue to watch the man from the window as they prepare dinner. Within two hours he has gone through two crates, which must have brought him at least a couple of dollars.
Sylvia has seen enough; she marches outside with a cup of
Soup and piece of bread. She gives it to the apple vendor.
She talks with him for a few minutes, then bids him goodnight and gathers the dinnerware.
Sylvia, upon entering, joins Anne who is waiting with bated breath for an explanation)
“Apples Anne. That’s all I can tell you. It is so easy and all you need is ten dollars to start up.”
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Scene 28, Jack Legrand
The crescendo scene of a silent film tragedy always seems to flash images of anguished faces. They look on as the dignity of the protagonist slips from his hands.
Torn between two worlds; the one he thought existed and the one, which actually does. He is helpless.
Watching a man discover his own worthlessness seems an intrusion.
As onlookers, we become audience to his moment of bitter disillusionment, where we realize with him that he will never again exist the way he had previously.
Life as he knows it, will never be the same.
In such a scene Jack Legrand wears the anguished face. He is the cinema owner who had gone bust in the market crash months before.
Fearing the very moment he is now faced with, he hid his loss from his family and friends, hoping for the best.
Staying at the office all hours until finally, an eviction notice was hand delivered by a lawyer accompanied by two officers who escorted him off the premises and chain bolted the doors to the theatre shut.
Upon arriving home, LeGrand walked into the scene that awaited him in the story of his own personal tragedy.
Unbeknownst to him, his wife had been notified of the loss three days prior. She had quietly made arrangements to leave, taking the children with her.
Her reason, whether it was Jack’s tendency to drinking in excess, avoiding his family, or the loss of his cinema, (which he had failed to inform his wife about for three months)
Mrs. Legrand’s mind was made up to leave, and the hard look on her face showed it.
As a moving tuck was filled with the contents of the home, by the order of his wife, Jacks in-laws stood by, arms crossed and stone faced as Legrand begged his wife to stay.
He cried tears of a half drunk who wanted someone to fight with. There was hissing and spitting when the tears had run dry. Finally the ragefull throwing and tearing of the belongings being stripped of him, being taken by a family who refused to stay by his side in the midst of his darkest hour.
They ought to have been ashamed at treating him so coldly, but they were not. Their indifference toward him brought out a beast within him.
In seeing the beast, it would make it easier to leave.
Seeing the pitiful beast would make it easier to remind her children why Mrs. LeGrand had chosen to leave Jack. When the little ones awoke at night missing him, all she need do is conjure the ugly and pitiful image of a grown man hissing, spitting and begging his family to stay, and she would ever be a heroine and he the villain.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Scence 27, Sylvia "Pshchology is a form of witchcraft!"
As for Sylvia, you could always find her in the kitchen. She was the most calm when her hands were busy. She especially liked making bread. It was one of the few things that she both enjoyed and felt was worthy of her attention. She liked watching the dough take form. In the early mixing stages it was a gooey mess that frustrated her, but under her consistent rolling and turning, became a tidy, obedient mass.
“If only life were so simple”
Musing to herself, smiling and remembering that life was that simple.
Those who knew her would come into her kitchen and sit by her hearth as she worked. Often heavy hearted they would come into her presence seeking refuge or enlightenment from lifes confusions.
Sylvia had the capability of delivering both a rebuke and a blessing in the same stroke. A warm listener, she welcomes the confessions of the despondent and could conjure metanoia. Her ease often made a confessor feel that Sylvia was something of an objective haven for their woes but on the contrary, she dared to challenge an attitude of indifference, guiding it towards conviction and decency.
Sylvia was keen on reminding a person that just because they happen to have a dispassion for morality, did not make them exempt from their responsibility to do what was good and right in this world on behalf of those whom they share it with.
She says what she means to, tailoring it for no one. She views the reproach she offers as a service or responsibility. Convinced that what she sees is truth, she is bound by God and heaven to bring it into light.
Things simply must be said, and they must be said simply.
She hated all of the “feeling” nonsense that was suddenly in fashion. It seemed the style for people to talk about their secret desires revealed in their dreams and the like. She believed Psychology was a form of witchcraft at its worst and a useless waste of time at its best.
“Psychologists…pft…”
She was heard muttering under her breath one evening as the eldest three gave audience to her speech.
“They’re not Scientists! They are Artists, Actors and Bohemians! All of this nonsense with the subconscious. I’ll tell you what! That Freud must be UNCONSIOUS if he thought we Breslyns were going to buy that steaming, stench heap! My God in heaven! Making up words like Ego this and Super Ego that…he sure had some Ego assuming everyone thinks the same sick way he does. Crazy do nothing man! He ought to be ashamed of himself…leading astray an entire generation of young people! Encouraging them to think all day on nothing but fornication!”
At which point Thomas let out a chuckle at his mother’s passionate rant.
“You wipe that smile off your face young man. I’ll not have any of mine indulging in any immoral extracurriculars!”
Now looking into Thomas’s eyes deeply.
“You know just what I’m referring to young man…"
Turning to the rest of her children.
"That goes for the lot of you heathen’s, don’t you think for one second that just because your father isn’t here you’ll be getting away with any indecency under this roof. No sir, Old Sylvia’s wise eh? Yes sir Sylvia is wise. To. That!”
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Scene 26, Lilies...Anne and the children.
Anne ignored the stomach pains that reminded her it was well past lunchtime. She had forgotten to eat breakfast. What hurt could be done in missing lunch as well? After all, how much nourishment could half stale bread and milk actually provide her with?
As she rhythmically plunged her spade into the earth, she could practically hear her hands screaming at her to stop.
Around her, in the yard, are all the Breslyn children who, since having moved in with Anne, have adopted chores of their own and taken to running her home quite industriously. So industriously, in fact that couldn’t help but quietly smile to herself, as she understood the benefits of a large family.
Tom, Sylvia’s eldest, is chopping wood on the side yard of the house. He wears a cap and has his suspenders up over his white tee shirt. Sixteen now, he has become quite intrigued with himself. A few years back, he used to hate it when his mother prompted him to chop wood. But now he seemed eager to do it. He set up the chopping block further off from the house and closer to the road. He liked to watch the street as he worked. Especially when school got out down the way. He always made sure he was out, working in the yard when the girls walked by on their way home from school. He would of course pretend not to notice then at all save for a casual glance up, in between logs. He would stop chopping and begin stacking, when he saw an especially pretty one. He would fill his arms with weight enough to make his arms to flex, causing his still blossoming arm muscles bulge under the weight of the wood he carried. Locking gazes with the girl for just a moment he would carry the wood to the pile and unload it. Before he went back to chopping, he would glance back at the girl to see her, hopefully still looking at him. He liked this form of unspoken affirmation. He enjoyed feeling able and strong. His body had changed from what it was. Girls were starting to notice him when he walked down the street. He was already eager to find conquests, and establish his own territory.
Mary and Margaret (Called Maggie) were always together. They were presently hanging the wash on the line to dry. They gossiped and teased one another back and forth. They bickered like old ladies and laughed like little girls.
Maggie was the fiery of the two. She had orange red hair and light green eyes that switched and flashed and never missed a thing. She was currently interested in nothing more than the opposite sex and weather or not they noticed her. She had a slender waist and a still developing full bosoms. Her cheeks were round and she seemed to be ever smiling.
Mary was graceful and had the beauty of a little mother. Her face was angular with high cheekbones. Her mouth was small and modest with a slight upward curl on either side that made her look both regal and contented. Her long straight hair was chestnut brown.
By nature she was quiet, but Maggie brought out her Mick. They would banter back and forth until blushing, red cheeked and hot Mary would smile and laugh, frustrated and delighted at having lost her composure.
Windy was a grand matter. Nine years of age, average height and very wiry he has the light blue eyes of his mother. He is uncommonly kind and thoughtful for a boy his age. Windy is not his birth name. His real name is Andrew. His family calls him Windy affectionately because he is an unusually energetic boy. He runs through the house with such haste that he truly blows by those he passes and runs outdoors closing the door with a great SLAM!
“Who was that?” Sylvia would yell from the kitchen. Having already leapt off the porch and half way down the walk, far out of earshot, Sylvia resigned herself to the idea that it had been the wind. Once she learned whom it had been all along, she had believed it had been the wind with such conviction that she was surprised to find that it had been Andrew all along. So she began to call him Windy.
Windy suffers from an unnamed illness. First comes the exhaustion, loosing his breath easily and simple things become harder than they usually are. Next comes the coughing and wheezing when he breathes. He looses color in his face and seems almost gray. . Some days he suffers from exhaustion so great that he is unable to get out of bed. His skin becomes pale and cool to the touch. His breath becomes shallow and he is listless. During times like these he seems frustrated that his body can’t keep up with his spirit.
Of course then, down the line were the young ones, Michael, Gabriel, Sara, and little Molly who was not yet two. The young ones provided the joy in the eclectic mass of things at Anne’s house. Having been from a family with only one other sibling, she delighted in the goings on of a large clan, and marveled at what a tight ship Sylvia ran, in spite of the chaos.
Seeing Molly toddle around grabbing and naming things for the first time, she was grateful and felt the honor of be a guardian to her in her most impressionable days.
Michael and Gabriel, being twins and four, were always together and seemed to be not quite like-minded but complimentary to one another. In mornings when they thought they were alone, they would dare one another to urinate out of doors and compare whose steaming stream could reach the furthest.
Looking on from the kitchen, Anne only laughed, shook her head and took note at how early such nonsense began for young boys.
As for Sara who was just seven now, Anne took to her like a young sister, and in return Sara took to her in the same regard.
Sara had a love for the outdoors and seemed to understand the rhythm of the seasons as they pertained to growing things. There was a great peaceful stillness about her, though she was not lacking in the curiosity of youth.
Having the Breslyn clan was no burden to Anne. On the contrary, she was enriched by their presence in her life, especially during such dark days. Each attended to his own task, and took ownership of Anne’s home, making it run far more smoothly than it had before their presence there. She marveled at their harmony, learned their songs, how to fight according to their rules, and slowly became one of them, in her own right.
Weather she was a younger mother or an older sister, she knew not, but their presence became essential to her, and hers to them.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Scene 25, Anne's garden early summer 1930
Either the soil was bad, or gardening was a far more complex task than Anne had previously thought. And because she knew that the soil was fertile and well drained there was only one explanation for the lack of fruit that her efforts bore.
Surveying her yard in the sweltering heat of an uncommonly warm early June, her mind raced as she critiqued the work she had done earlier that spring. Jotting down in her notebook she was ever the diligent, lest she make the same mistakes twice.
Anne: (quietly, to herself)
Peas planted to late and over watered late in the season. Tomatoes planted too close together, remember to treat with calcium to prevent soft fruit. Pole beans more space efficant to bush variety. Stagger root vegetables in closer intervals for constant supply.
Sylvia: (Bringing her a glass of tea)
Don’t know much about this whole operation Anne but it seems to me we’ve a bit of bad earth Miss!
Anne: (Humbly) Oh Sylv. You are kind…no, it’s not the earth I’m afraid. It’s the gardener who tends the earth.
Sylvia: Well that just can’t be. What did you go to school for all those years? Why growing things…
Anne: I’m sorry to say that what I went to school for all those years was for what you would refer to as vanity Sylv. I spent the better part of my time learning how to prounounce names of unusual plants in latin, cross pollinate, graft trees and vines but for all the time I have spent on my education I can’t seem to grow a simple tomato.
Sylvia: I was going to say don’t be so hard on yourself but you and I ought to be ashamed of ourselves really!
(Anne looks at her, smiling greatfulyl that Sylvia has included herself as being responsible with her)
Anne: You’re a good friend Sylv.
Sylvia: I am not! I’m a lazy roust about who’s riding on the good graces of a hardworking young one whose hit hard times and has been good enough to take in a family who’s no relation to her own.
(Beat)
I’m greatful to ya Miss Hibbert. (pause. Sylvia is sincere) I don’t know what we would have done with out your kindness these last months.
I’ll not say an ill word against your efforts seeing as they have been in honor of my young ones as well as yourself.
Anne: I wish I knew how to yield more fruit.
Sylvia: (Still with a sincere look on her face she muses as she surveys the garden with Anne.)
It is a shitter, isn’t it?
(beat)
Still, I have some news…Morenos Butcher shop just down the way wants to hire on Tom to do some work for them, regularly. They say they can’t afford to pay him much but told me that in place of cash they could offer meat.
Anne: (mulling this over) Meat huh?
Sylvia: Yes, you remember what that tastes like?
Anne: I think so. (Smiling) Tom would be willing to do that?
Sylvia: It’s his place among us. He is my eldest son, Anne. It’s good and right. I’d not deny him that honor.
Surveying her yard in the sweltering heat of an uncommonly warm early June, her mind raced as she critiqued the work she had done earlier that spring. Jotting down in her notebook she was ever the diligent, lest she make the same mistakes twice.
Anne: (quietly, to herself)
Peas planted to late and over watered late in the season. Tomatoes planted too close together, remember to treat with calcium to prevent soft fruit. Pole beans more space efficant to bush variety. Stagger root vegetables in closer intervals for constant supply.
Sylvia: (Bringing her a glass of tea)
Don’t know much about this whole operation Anne but it seems to me we’ve a bit of bad earth Miss!
Anne: (Humbly) Oh Sylv. You are kind…no, it’s not the earth I’m afraid. It’s the gardener who tends the earth.
Sylvia: Well that just can’t be. What did you go to school for all those years? Why growing things…
Anne: I’m sorry to say that what I went to school for all those years was for what you would refer to as vanity Sylv. I spent the better part of my time learning how to prounounce names of unusual plants in latin, cross pollinate, graft trees and vines but for all the time I have spent on my education I can’t seem to grow a simple tomato.
Sylvia: I was going to say don’t be so hard on yourself but you and I ought to be ashamed of ourselves really!
(Anne looks at her, smiling greatfulyl that Sylvia has included herself as being responsible with her)
Anne: You’re a good friend Sylv.
Sylvia: I am not! I’m a lazy roust about who’s riding on the good graces of a hardworking young one whose hit hard times and has been good enough to take in a family who’s no relation to her own.
(Beat)
I’m greatful to ya Miss Hibbert. (pause. Sylvia is sincere) I don’t know what we would have done with out your kindness these last months.
I’ll not say an ill word against your efforts seeing as they have been in honor of my young ones as well as yourself.
Anne: I wish I knew how to yield more fruit.
Sylvia: (Still with a sincere look on her face she muses as she surveys the garden with Anne.)
It is a shitter, isn’t it?
(beat)
Still, I have some news…Morenos Butcher shop just down the way wants to hire on Tom to do some work for them, regularly. They say they can’t afford to pay him much but told me that in place of cash they could offer meat.
Anne: (mulling this over) Meat huh?
Sylvia: Yes, you remember what that tastes like?
Anne: I think so. (Smiling) Tom would be willing to do that?
Sylvia: It’s his place among us. He is my eldest son, Anne. It’s good and right. I’d not deny him that honor.
Scene 24, Spring 1930 Hist overview
Reading the paper made it seem like a different time and place than it really was. Phrases like ‘Business Depression light’ and the ever popular ‘The darkest hour is just before dawn’ were thrown around by columnists and said, economists alike who seemed to have a very confidant outlook on an economy that seemed to be growing worse and worse by the hour.
Even Henry Ford himself who had prudently closed down a good share of auto factories and laid off thousands of employees insisted that business was on an up trend by the summer of 1930.
Years later, historians would argue that such comments and predictions were made to combat the prevalent attitude of pessimism that some believed was to blame for the continuing downward spiral at the time.
Comparisons were made between the recession of 1920-1921 and the crash of 1929.
There is a reassurance that we seem to gain by reminding ourselves of past struggles during our darkest hours. We suddenly recall the past as though using it as a marker to remind ourselves of what we are capable of enduring.
The past can be a reminder of our fortitude, so long as the present struggle does not surpass the struggles of the past, lest we loose hope in the realization that we have entered new and uncharted waters.
Scene 23, Michael Meets the Lavery boys
Mostly, Michael would stay up late in the barn and tend to his woodworking. He was a passionate craftsman. He was more of an artist really, but he hated titles and pretension and insisted that his craft was merely a hobby.
On his hikes he would locate and collect burls to make into fine bowls, and tabletops to sell in town and in the city when they needed money.
Michael met the Lavery boys on one such trip he was making into Seattle.
His small craft was having a bit of engine trouble in the port of Langley, where it was docked.
Some friendly Irish lads offered to lend him a hand. The darker complected of the two was quiet and went by the name Daniel. The other, Joseph, was far more outspoken, had a rudy complection and a firm handshake. He spoke with Joseph while Daniel immediatly took to tinkering with the engine of Michaels small craft.
He was immediately intrigued with them, they said they were coming through on business, and he knew just what kind. He immediately pinned them for bootleggers based on the style of their craft and the way they were dressed. Also, their boat seemed a bit too weighted down to be carrying anything other then barrels of booze.
After working all morning to fix the problem without success, the boys offered to give him a lift into Seattle on their own craft since they were headed that way anyhow. After the time they had invested in helping him, he felt obliged to accept their kind offer, that and his family was in desperate need of some cash.
On the short trip across the Puget Sound they chatted like old friends.
Michael had an earnest but kind nature and told the lads that they were not as discreet about their business as they ought to be. He advised them to dress down, and carry fishing gear like crab pots on their boat, in plain sight so as not to arouse suspicion.
This of course was during their early years of rum running and they were grateful for his honesty. By the time they docked in the city Michael had given Daniel and Joseph his address, and invited them to come and visit the island any time they liked. He even offered to give them a barrel of his own homemade cider to try if they came.
As it turned out, the boys did visit when they had business out on Whidbey Island, and they found it to be a welcoming and lively place, especially in the summer when lots of folks were coming and going.
On his hikes he would locate and collect burls to make into fine bowls, and tabletops to sell in town and in the city when they needed money.
Michael met the Lavery boys on one such trip he was making into Seattle.
His small craft was having a bit of engine trouble in the port of Langley, where it was docked.
Some friendly Irish lads offered to lend him a hand. The darker complected of the two was quiet and went by the name Daniel. The other, Joseph, was far more outspoken, had a rudy complection and a firm handshake. He spoke with Joseph while Daniel immediatly took to tinkering with the engine of Michaels small craft.
He was immediately intrigued with them, they said they were coming through on business, and he knew just what kind. He immediately pinned them for bootleggers based on the style of their craft and the way they were dressed. Also, their boat seemed a bit too weighted down to be carrying anything other then barrels of booze.
After working all morning to fix the problem without success, the boys offered to give him a lift into Seattle on their own craft since they were headed that way anyhow. After the time they had invested in helping him, he felt obliged to accept their kind offer, that and his family was in desperate need of some cash.
On the short trip across the Puget Sound they chatted like old friends.
Michael had an earnest but kind nature and told the lads that they were not as discreet about their business as they ought to be. He advised them to dress down, and carry fishing gear like crab pots on their boat, in plain sight so as not to arouse suspicion.
This of course was during their early years of rum running and they were grateful for his honesty. By the time they docked in the city Michael had given Daniel and Joseph his address, and invited them to come and visit the island any time they liked. He even offered to give them a barrel of his own homemade cider to try if they came.
As it turned out, the boys did visit when they had business out on Whidbey Island, and they found it to be a welcoming and lively place, especially in the summer when lots of folks were coming and going.
Scene 22b, More on MIchael
Michael hated the idea of hiring help to harvest the apple crop every year. He dreaded any task that required too much organization and detail. So instead of hiring a crew to pick his apples and sell them in the city, he simply put a sign out in the front of his driveway that said:
“APPLES. YOU PICK. CHEAP!”
It seemed to attract plenty of folks who were passing through. Though he made a considerable amount less than he would have had he run his orchard like any other farmer, it was less nonsense and therefore good enough for him. Besides that, most of the money he made from the apples came from the cider he brewed on his property. It wasn’t nearly as strong as the hard stuff most people in the city liked to drink, but it was good for a buzz and most of his customers were his friends and neighbors there on the island. They would stop in for a visit, share a meal and have a walk. Michael always shared a sample of the brew. Finally they would load a barrel onto their truck and bid their host a good day.
“APPLES. YOU PICK. CHEAP!”
It seemed to attract plenty of folks who were passing through. Though he made a considerable amount less than he would have had he run his orchard like any other farmer, it was less nonsense and therefore good enough for him. Besides that, most of the money he made from the apples came from the cider he brewed on his property. It wasn’t nearly as strong as the hard stuff most people in the city liked to drink, but it was good for a buzz and most of his customers were his friends and neighbors there on the island. They would stop in for a visit, share a meal and have a walk. Michael always shared a sample of the brew. Finally they would load a barrel onto their truck and bid their host a good day.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Scene21, Running whiskey, the Lavery's and the Puget Sound
The Puget Sound was the most practical place to be if you were in the business of booze transport. Due to the excess of islands, inlets, large peninsula, and vast amounts of land to patrol, the task of guarding the coast was far too daunting for any governmental organization to actually claim any real amount of control over. The Puget Sound was a Rumrunner’s paradise.
Washington was allotted a whopping 22 coastguard to patrol the entire state and a few of them were crooked. Still, those hounds somehow managed to sniff out a good number of very substantial shipments coming in from Canada into Seattle. Many a barrel of fine whiskey was dumped right into the sound.
On days like that, Runners would nudge one another and say, “What I wouldn’t give to be an fish just off the harbor on Whidbey today!” That of course was a way of telling one another not to do any business around Whidbey or Camano for a few days. The guards and the police were like that. They would bust a few boats in one area and then stay there and strut around town for a few days, make their presence known and get their due; a few pats on the back from the mayor, attend a few social events in their honor.
Most of the arrests were first timers who couldn’t read the roads or the water well enough to navigate themselves quietly, under the radar of the police and the coast guard. They were guys who got sick of paying the professionasl and opted to take it upon themselves to do a little importing of their own. The problem was, as it always is with any first-timers in anything, they would fumble around too long. Keeping lanterns lit on board, drinking the cargo while they went, bellowing to one another and attracting all kinds of attention. But, bothering with the first timers kept the heat off of the professionals; the cops had to stay busy with someone. So the big runners always left a little room for the little guys to get in on the action.
Most of the runners stayed close to the port, even when they weren’t transporting. It was the best way to keep a listen on the latest location on the coast guard and the police. Some of them stayed all day long, chain smoking and shooting the breeze with local fishermen and dockworkers, as they had not much else to do and no real jobs to attend to. They treated the water front like an office, checking in with boats coming in from Canada and Anacortes. They always knew when the Coasties were up north, hiding out in the San Juan Islands, because fewer boats came in from Anacortes which was a main drop off point for Canadian distilled whiskey.
The rule up north for most runners was, once someone spotted the coast guard hiding out on the water, all boat transports going south into Seattle were called off and instead, the goods were moved by land, down the highway if the mover had the gumpton.
This was an edge the Lavery’s had over other runners; they were a hybrid operation which ment they could co-ordinate movement by land or sea. They had access to both trucks and fast boats.
The Lavery Brothers Moving Company was one of the few large operations that would run large amounts of whiskey by land. For most runners, the risk was too great to even attempt transport from Canada by any other way but sea. The Lavery’s discovered a little port by the name of Anacortes. It was a small port, Northwest of Seattle. It served as the main shipping point for the San Juan Islands. Anacortes provided access to the highway, the sea and to Whidbey Island. Whidbey could be used, as an alternate route should one need to.
Their land and sea operation had not always been that way. They had began in 1926 with three men and one moving truck, but recently, their operation had grown exponentially and they invested their profits into some speed boats thus catapulting them into becoming one of the larger and more reputable movers in the state.
Who’s to say just how it all began exactly?
The gist is that the Lavery boys could put away the booze. Since prohibition began, the whole Lavery clan grew tired of paying an arm and a leg for the drink. They decided to save a little on the side by picking up large quantities themselves and cutting out the middle man.
Both Joseph and Daniel ran the operation. Joseph was older with a sense for organization and numbers. He did most of the coordinating and dealt with payment. He also ran the tavern, which the family had recently opened.
Daniel had a cool demeanor and knew when to talk and when to shut up. He did most of the footwork; drop offs and pick-ups.
Since the family moving company took them to places like Anacortes or even Canada from time to time, they simply loaded up a barrel or two before returning back to the city. No extra costs, no fancy plans, just a barrel or two.
Once or twice, they offered to pick up a barrel for a friend who had a tavern. They charged a hefty fee for the risk, and with the extra profit they brought home three barrels for themselves, rather then the usual two. The third was bottled up and sold in small amounts to friends, turning even more of a profit. So it went until it became a full operation with boats and deliveries, radios and even a bookkeeper.
By 1927 business was great for them. They had adopted more customers due to a recent apprehension of a very reputable competitor. In 1926, a runner, (though he was more of a booze tycoon) by the name of Roy Olmstead was arrested in Seattle. His arrest displaced a lot of thirsty folks who found that the Lavery brothers were more than happy to satisfy their taste for good Canadian whiskey
Since there was only one highway from Canada to Seattle and the police patrolled it heavily. The now imprisoned ex booze tycoon, Roy Olmstead, inspired Joseph. Olmstead had been known for doing all his shipping activity in broad daylight. The philosophy was simple; sometimes, obvious behavior is the least obvious. They ran their operation like a business. Under the guise of being a moving company, they had so far gone four years without a single arrest on their team, which consisted of mostly family and a few trusted friends.
Although the brothers enjoy a bit of financial prosperity, thanks to the bootlegging, it was never their intention to make a business for themselves in organized crime. They didn’t run their operation like a mob the way most rum runners do. They didn’t highjack shipments, fight with other runners for turf, or even carry guns.
The Lavery’s come from a strong Catholic family who strongly disagree with the Prhibition laws.
Joseph and Daniels parents, William and Anna immigrated from Belfast, Ireland with their 5 children 15 years earlier. They came to Washington to join Williams brother in the moving business. The boys and their siblings spent the better part of their teenage years in Seattle, yet still spoke with thick Irish accents.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Scene 20. Elton's Last day
As it turned out, he was never technically "let go" from work at the Ford factory. He was one of the few men left working the line the day that the factory closed it's doors. It was a little thing, but he took SOME pride in knowing that he was never actually "let go"
Ford had closed down many of it's factories, nationwide in an effort to cut costs, his included. He would finish his shift today, and join the rest of the men in the city in search of honest work.
March 3rd, 1930, the factory was offically closed.
Elton had noticed his boss, Mac, drinking since this morning. When quitting time came, Mac's attempt at a final "atta boy" speech on behalf of his downhearted and now unemployed staff, was almost undecipherable due to his mumbled slurs. He kept raising an invisible glass and talking in circles, saying things like, "As soon as this whole economic rut nonsense blows over we'll be up and running. You just wait!"
But, the empty hip flask and the strong smell on his breath suggested that Mac may not have believed this truth quite as wholeheartedly as he was attempting to convey.
Mac had hoped to give a final speech, in which he left his staff feeling uplifted and hopeful, but it was ending up more of a somber apologetic explanation, sprinkled with a few out of place zingers by a wisecracking downtowner.
When the creshendo of Mac's painfully akward speech (or rant) came, Elton knew it was time for someone to take over, lest the man himself start laughing hyterically or sobbing like a baby. Placing his hand on Mac's shoulder, Elton moved forward, cutting in "Yes your right Mac,this economic nonsense will blow over."
As Elton began, he took a moment and paused and allowed a tender silence to fall over the room. A moment in which he absorbed the dispare, self doubt and humiliation of his fellow employees. His voice was sure, sincere, as well as honest and hopeful.
"It is not for individual failure, that we leave this place today. I have worked alongside many of you for some time now and can attest to that truth. Do not lend your mind to thoughts of any task left undone. Surely, since this factory has been run on less than a half staffed as efficiently as it was run with a full staff, then no fault could be found among these people who stand before me today.
The repercussions of the shortcomings of this economy can not be found within the workers who have banded together faithfully to produce the fruit of industry...but rather in industry itself, an entity which we have been lead to believe to be infallible and unbreakable.
And so, in knowing that this, that the industrial collective is in fact, fallible, breakable and weak at it's core, let this be a time where we look once again to the individual human spirit and the capacity it has to endure and rise in such a way that industry cannot.
And with you, along side you, I rise. Proud to have accomplished and overcome so many challanges already and eager to endure and to again accomplish and overcome in the challanges which lie ahead.
To the struggle that awaits us, outside those doors, as we know it does, may it bend but never break you. May you aspire for goodness, even in the darkest of days, and have something of a hunger for humility.
Ford had closed down many of it's factories, nationwide in an effort to cut costs, his included. He would finish his shift today, and join the rest of the men in the city in search of honest work.
March 3rd, 1930, the factory was offically closed.
Elton had noticed his boss, Mac, drinking since this morning. When quitting time came, Mac's attempt at a final "atta boy" speech on behalf of his downhearted and now unemployed staff, was almost undecipherable due to his mumbled slurs. He kept raising an invisible glass and talking in circles, saying things like, "As soon as this whole economic rut nonsense blows over we'll be up and running. You just wait!"
But, the empty hip flask and the strong smell on his breath suggested that Mac may not have believed this truth quite as wholeheartedly as he was attempting to convey.
Mac had hoped to give a final speech, in which he left his staff feeling uplifted and hopeful, but it was ending up more of a somber apologetic explanation, sprinkled with a few out of place zingers by a wisecracking downtowner.
When the creshendo of Mac's painfully akward speech (or rant) came, Elton knew it was time for someone to take over, lest the man himself start laughing hyterically or sobbing like a baby. Placing his hand on Mac's shoulder, Elton moved forward, cutting in "Yes your right Mac,this economic nonsense will blow over."
As Elton began, he took a moment and paused and allowed a tender silence to fall over the room. A moment in which he absorbed the dispare, self doubt and humiliation of his fellow employees. His voice was sure, sincere, as well as honest and hopeful.
"It is not for individual failure, that we leave this place today. I have worked alongside many of you for some time now and can attest to that truth. Do not lend your mind to thoughts of any task left undone. Surely, since this factory has been run on less than a half staffed as efficiently as it was run with a full staff, then no fault could be found among these people who stand before me today.
The repercussions of the shortcomings of this economy can not be found within the workers who have banded together faithfully to produce the fruit of industry...but rather in industry itself, an entity which we have been lead to believe to be infallible and unbreakable.
And so, in knowing that this, that the industrial collective is in fact, fallible, breakable and weak at it's core, let this be a time where we look once again to the individual human spirit and the capacity it has to endure and rise in such a way that industry cannot.
And with you, along side you, I rise. Proud to have accomplished and overcome so many challanges already and eager to endure and to again accomplish and overcome in the challanges which lie ahead.
To the struggle that awaits us, outside those doors, as we know it does, may it bend but never break you. May you aspire for goodness, even in the darkest of days, and have something of a hunger for humility.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Scene 19a, Dan tries to help
(Later that same night)
As the rain falls that evening Daniel is in his families pub. He has had a few drinks and leans on the counter. The sound of the rain is making him feel sorry he left Anne to do such hard work by herself.
Anne is still in her Garden, determined to finish. She is soaked and covered in mud and shit. Sylvia has gone home, her duties as wife and mother have called her there.
Back at the bar: a few more moments pass before he finally rises and leaves the bar. He gets in his truck and goes to her house. When he arrives, he finds her there still hard at it. He gets out of his truck and goes to her, and takes the shovel from her hands.
Daniel: (shouting over the rain as it pours over his sorry, apologetic face.)
I’m sorry; I should’ve offered to help today.
(He starts to work)
Anne: (plowing her own shovel into his own.)
I can do it Daniel!
(Resisting the temptation to let him help, for a moment the tiredness shows on her face. Still hunching over, she holds her hands out for him to return the shovel)
Daniel: No let me.
Anne: (Standing. Now Demanding) Daniel I can do it!
Daniel: But I don’t mind, Anne.
(The rain is soaking them both as they stand soaked and facing each other)
Anne: Mind? You think I’m trying to save your back ? Daniel this has nothing to do with you. I’ve been shoveling this…Shit for the past five hours; I’m almost done here. I am doing just fine and I don’t need your help.
What for? So you can do the last bit for me and tell yourself and anyone else that poor Anne couldn’t have done all this herself.
No thank you!
Daniel: I never said… (Becoming suddenly scornful at the sting of her rejection, he thrusts the shovel into her hand)
I just wanted to help.
Anne: Well don’t…don’t help me! This is my work here. I don’t need saving. Do you understand me?
Daniel: (Raising his voice so as to be heard over the now pouring rain)
You are a stubborn one aren’t you?
Anne: (Exasperated, she speaks honestly to him)
I want to know, I have to know if I can do this Daniel!
Daniel: Well sure you can! But why not let me?
Anne: This thing is breaking people. All over the city Dan, you can see it on their faces. Why should I be exempt?
I want to do this! I want this!
(Holding the shovel triumphantly.
and ironically, laughing joyfully, teetering toward maddness)
Dan, feeling scorned, reaches into his pocket for a cigarette, finds one goes to light iit fails because of the rain and shakes his head as he walks away, he throws the soggy smoke on the groung and tips his now soggy hat at her as he walks out the gate.)
As the rain falls that evening Daniel is in his families pub. He has had a few drinks and leans on the counter. The sound of the rain is making him feel sorry he left Anne to do such hard work by herself.
Anne is still in her Garden, determined to finish. She is soaked and covered in mud and shit. Sylvia has gone home, her duties as wife and mother have called her there.
Back at the bar: a few more moments pass before he finally rises and leaves the bar. He gets in his truck and goes to her house. When he arrives, he finds her there still hard at it. He gets out of his truck and goes to her, and takes the shovel from her hands.
Daniel: (shouting over the rain as it pours over his sorry, apologetic face.)
I’m sorry; I should’ve offered to help today.
(He starts to work)
Anne: (plowing her own shovel into his own.)
I can do it Daniel!
(Resisting the temptation to let him help, for a moment the tiredness shows on her face. Still hunching over, she holds her hands out for him to return the shovel)
Daniel: No let me.
Anne: (Standing. Now Demanding) Daniel I can do it!
Daniel: But I don’t mind, Anne.
(The rain is soaking them both as they stand soaked and facing each other)
Anne: Mind? You think I’m trying to save your back ? Daniel this has nothing to do with you. I’ve been shoveling this…Shit for the past five hours; I’m almost done here. I am doing just fine and I don’t need your help.
What for? So you can do the last bit for me and tell yourself and anyone else that poor Anne couldn’t have done all this herself.
No thank you!
Daniel: I never said… (Becoming suddenly scornful at the sting of her rejection, he thrusts the shovel into her hand)
I just wanted to help.
Anne: Well don’t…don’t help me! This is my work here. I don’t need saving. Do you understand me?
Daniel: (Raising his voice so as to be heard over the now pouring rain)
You are a stubborn one aren’t you?
Anne: (Exasperated, she speaks honestly to him)
I want to know, I have to know if I can do this Daniel!
Daniel: Well sure you can! But why not let me?
Anne: This thing is breaking people. All over the city Dan, you can see it on their faces. Why should I be exempt?
I want to do this! I want this!
(Holding the shovel triumphantly.
and ironically, laughing joyfully, teetering toward maddness)
Dan, feeling scorned, reaches into his pocket for a cigarette, finds one goes to light iit fails because of the rain and shakes his head as he walks away, he throws the soggy smoke on the groung and tips his now soggy hat at her as he walks out the gate.)
Friday, May 28, 2010
Scene 18, lilies. A gift from Dan
(A week later)
A truck pulls up to Anne’s house. It is Daniel and a few lads. Sylvia is the first to speak as Daniel gets out of the truck.
Sylvia: (To Anne)
Well, look what the cat dragged in! It’s Daniel Lavery come to profess his love to me. Hello to you sir!
(She winks at Dan)
Daniel: Hullo Sylv. I see you’ve decided to join in this madness.
(He winks back at Sylvia then glances to Anne, she is waiting for him to reveal his purpose for coming.)
Hello Miss Anne.
(He removes his hat)
Anne: Hello Mr. Lavery. I wasn't aware that you two knew each other.
Daniel: Oh all the lads know old Sylvia Breslyn!
Sylvia: (Having a bit of fun,scolding him)
You bite your tongue you nasty heathen!
Daniel: (To Anne)
You seem about finished turning the soil. Well done.
Anne: I don’t suppose you’ve come to praise my efforts Mr. Lavery. What can I do for you?
Sylvia: What’s that awful smell boys?
(The smell is coming from the truck)
Daniel: It’s a gift. (He unlatches the back of the truck)
Anne: What’s going on here?
Daniel: Now that you have the soil turned, I recommend that you amend it. So I have taken the liberty of picking up some fresh steer manure.
(Sylvia and Anne exchange a look.)
Next we see the boys dumping the heap of manure off of the truck and on to Anne’s lawn in a tall pile. Anne and Sylvia are staring at it. Just as the boys are finishing up Dan says…
Daniel: Oh I almost forgot!
(He goes to his truck, gets something, and then returns. He hands the women a pair of gloves each)
You’ll need these.
Anne: Thank you.
Daniel: (Putting his cap back on.)
Well you better get to work. Looks like rain tonight. If you don’t get this laid out by then it could end up running down the street. Good luck…not that you need it. (winks)
Thursday, April 29, 2010
The unbreaking of Islah Long
Far North, a small village
by river and wood.
A heardsman's small shack
near a field humbly stood.
Long since passed his wife
but before she did part
bore the herdsman's three lasses
with beauty and heart.
He raised them like sheep
and long broken their song.
the youngest of daughters,
the fair Islah Long.
Dark were her eyes
ever lowered they fixed
for without defense
of the old herdsman's tricks.
As for the herdsmans command,
"be not strong"
and so went the breaking
of young Islah Long
So, married by 14
to one going gray
like prized fatted calf
not a word did she say.
By 16, her duties,
well learned by her lord.
A subservient missus
well kept on a cord.
One day, into town
past a young riders side
caught the eye of young Islah
who matched him in stride
His eyes met her gaze,
they were much like his own,
transfixed for a moment
like calling her home
He beckoned her come,
having rode for a while,
he drew from her lips
a kind halfhearted smile.
And so took her with him
and pulling her near
compelled by a sadness
that caused her such fear.
He promised her boldly,
twas safe to become.
With a tear and a wail,
Islah no longer numb
Unable to serve him
her deeds he refused,
a beast died within her
twas no longer used.
He taught her to ride
and she took to the task.
Her legs gripped the steed
As she rode hard and fast
She longed and she lusted,
she howled with a throng.
And so, the untaming
of wild Islah Long
Her hair long and flowing,
now eyes bold and raised
these were the sweetest
of young Islah's days
No rules left to follow
No answers to owe
No sorrow, surrender
or lamenting woe
Making love in the medow
perfection and song,
gave his soul did the rider
to sweet Islah Long
Living on hillside
and riding through moor
The babe of the rider
inside her she bore
Proud was the father
and prouder his mate
but neaither aware
of a near future fate
Very soon the young rider
grew weary and ill
by his side the fair Islah
attended him still
And though strong and able,
She knew not what to do
and so, by and by
one last breath, he withdrew.
"I will not leave your side love,
I never shall leave.
By your grave I will stay,
to your soul I shall cleave"
A hovel she built there
and spoke to the wind
bound by a promise
she never would bend
And still,
even after her body had died
Her spirit was seen
on that old countryside
Hair wild and flowing
with eyes to the sun
reminding the youth
to leave nothing undone
So consider the tame,
and consider the strong
recall the unbreaking
of old Islah Long
by river and wood.
A heardsman's small shack
near a field humbly stood.
Long since passed his wife
but before she did part
bore the herdsman's three lasses
with beauty and heart.
He raised them like sheep
and long broken their song.
the youngest of daughters,
the fair Islah Long.
Dark were her eyes
ever lowered they fixed
for without defense
of the old herdsman's tricks.
As for the herdsmans command,
"be not strong"
and so went the breaking
of young Islah Long
So, married by 14
to one going gray
like prized fatted calf
not a word did she say.
By 16, her duties,
well learned by her lord.
A subservient missus
well kept on a cord.
One day, into town
past a young riders side
caught the eye of young Islah
who matched him in stride
His eyes met her gaze,
they were much like his own,
transfixed for a moment
like calling her home
He beckoned her come,
having rode for a while,
he drew from her lips
a kind halfhearted smile.
And so took her with him
and pulling her near
compelled by a sadness
that caused her such fear.
He promised her boldly,
twas safe to become.
With a tear and a wail,
Islah no longer numb
Unable to serve him
her deeds he refused,
a beast died within her
twas no longer used.
He taught her to ride
and she took to the task.
Her legs gripped the steed
As she rode hard and fast
She longed and she lusted,
she howled with a throng.
And so, the untaming
of wild Islah Long
Her hair long and flowing,
now eyes bold and raised
these were the sweetest
of young Islah's days
No rules left to follow
No answers to owe
No sorrow, surrender
or lamenting woe
Making love in the medow
perfection and song,
gave his soul did the rider
to sweet Islah Long
Living on hillside
and riding through moor
The babe of the rider
inside her she bore
Proud was the father
and prouder his mate
but neaither aware
of a near future fate
Very soon the young rider
grew weary and ill
by his side the fair Islah
attended him still
And though strong and able,
She knew not what to do
and so, by and by
one last breath, he withdrew.
"I will not leave your side love,
I never shall leave.
By your grave I will stay,
to your soul I shall cleave"
A hovel she built there
and spoke to the wind
bound by a promise
she never would bend
And still,
even after her body had died
Her spirit was seen
on that old countryside
Hair wild and flowing
with eyes to the sun
reminding the youth
to leave nothing undone
So consider the tame,
and consider the strong
recall the unbreaking
of old Islah Long
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Scene 17, Considering lilies The Seed.
On Anne’s large bit of property in the city, lies a small glass conservatory where Anne keeps and tends her own personal collection of rare and unusual botanical specimens. Anne and Sylvia share a drink in this small greenhouse. Discussing the matter of Neil Breslyn’s recent exodus from the Breslyn family. The topic, having been exhausted, Sylvia turns her attention to her current surroundings. The glasshouse is small, but it is clean and smells of what could only be described as peat moss. The air is warm and slightly humid, which makes it the perfect haven from the cold night air outside. There are two glass lanterns which are lit, one by the entry way and one in the center of the makeshift plywood table at which they are presently sitting. The modest glow of the two lights is enough to illuminate the entire house and the lights reflect off of the walls of glass. Anne tells Sylvia of her botanical treasures.
By the entryway there is a large shelf of books on the topic of horticulture. The books are worn and seem to have been studied and put to good use. Many have been marked and labeled with the reader’s commentary.
The ground is covered with small gravel stones, which crunch beneath walking feet. The plants in the house sit linearly and tidily on pine plywood tables, which have been built longitudily against the south facing length of the house.
The plants are, at present, separated by their environmental requirements. There is a xerophytes shelf by the entryway bookshelf, on which her collection of cacti sits, obviously thriving. In the back left-hand corner there is a table filled with epiphytes; Orchids of unusual shapes and speckled colors and bromeliads whose flowers resemble the tops of spinney pineapple fruits and long reptilian like patterns showing in shades from the most flamboyant reds to cool purples.
In the center table is the terrestrial collection. This was the largest portion of her collection, as their needs were most conducive to the conditions of her small arrangement. Within this section there was an area for Mediterranean specimens like Salvias, and Olive tree; a woodland portion, which was placed under the tables, on the ground for its low light high, moisture requirements. The untrained eye would not have noticed Anne’s arrangement, but for such a small greenhouse her organization was impeccable, and the health of her collection was proof of that.
Sylvia pretends not to be impressed, but even she can’t help but survey her surroundings with something of a sense of awe.
Unimpressed Sylvia teases….
Sylvia: (walking toward the back of the greenhouse, slowly surveying each specimen)
As pretty as some of your treasures may be, I’m afraid that I can’t beyond the vanity of it all enough to appreciate what you do in here.
Anne: (sharply) It’s not just the look of them that I love, it’s the way they behave and the…
(At a loss, walks to the center table.)
…Well, take this one for instance, a common daisy.
She is very forgiving to poor treatment and blooms profusely for long amounts of time. She is a faithful friend, sturdy and long lived. Most of my colleagues would turn their nose up at such a common thing, but I can’t help but value her for the way she grows…
Sylvia: Alright, now you’re making a bit of sense here miss Anne, go on show us another.
Anne: (Now somewhat bolder) Alright, well this one here is called Sarauma henrii. To be honest with you I didn’t care for him at first, you see he is very subtle. But when I looked closer I noticed many ways that he was unique. Sulfur yellow flower bearing only three petals, perfectly placed atop fine gray green heart shaped leaves. I admit that my notice of him was no love affair, but at the time nobody else had heard of him, let alone grew him So, I imagined that I could make quite a name for myself being the one to introduce him to our little horticultural community.
But he is difficult and stubborn to grow from seed. I must have laid thousands of seeds to sow, but to this day only three have sprouted and grown.
I can tell you today that it has been his stubbornness and indifference to my efforts that have caused me to lust after him all the more, and my inability to master him has made me favor him over most others.
Sylvia: (Quietly musing as she listens)
Oh no Anne! You’re in for one hell of a ride if that that’s the way to win your heart! (Beat)
What about this one here, there MUST be a story behind him?
(Pointing to a small, plain pine.)
Anne: Why do you say that?
Sylvia: Well you don’t keep it around for its good looks I can see that plain…
Anne: (Suddenly serious, Sylvia has discovered the heart of Anne’s collection)
I sowed that seed when my father died.
The seed of this plant must be submerged into boiling water. Next it must be cut with a very sharp blade in a few spots on the outer shell. Then rubbed with very course sandpaper over the entire surface, finally it must be thrown into the fire for just long enough, but not too long.
(Anne takes a large seed from the table top, next to the plant and hand it to Sylvia.)
You see the outer shell is so thick and hard that it is like a stone. The wearing down and breaking of this exterior is necessary so that light, water and earth can to enter into the heart of the seed, because that is where its life will begin.
Sylvia: And I accused you of vanity….
(Pouring a second shot for the two of them)
…shame on me!
(Sylvia raises her glass, as does Anne)
To the language of flowers!
By the entryway there is a large shelf of books on the topic of horticulture. The books are worn and seem to have been studied and put to good use. Many have been marked and labeled with the reader’s commentary.
The ground is covered with small gravel stones, which crunch beneath walking feet. The plants in the house sit linearly and tidily on pine plywood tables, which have been built longitudily against the south facing length of the house.
The plants are, at present, separated by their environmental requirements. There is a xerophytes shelf by the entryway bookshelf, on which her collection of cacti sits, obviously thriving. In the back left-hand corner there is a table filled with epiphytes; Orchids of unusual shapes and speckled colors and bromeliads whose flowers resemble the tops of spinney pineapple fruits and long reptilian like patterns showing in shades from the most flamboyant reds to cool purples.
In the center table is the terrestrial collection. This was the largest portion of her collection, as their needs were most conducive to the conditions of her small arrangement. Within this section there was an area for Mediterranean specimens like Salvias, and Olive tree; a woodland portion, which was placed under the tables, on the ground for its low light high, moisture requirements. The untrained eye would not have noticed Anne’s arrangement, but for such a small greenhouse her organization was impeccable, and the health of her collection was proof of that.
Sylvia pretends not to be impressed, but even she can’t help but survey her surroundings with something of a sense of awe.
Unimpressed Sylvia teases….
Sylvia: (walking toward the back of the greenhouse, slowly surveying each specimen)
As pretty as some of your treasures may be, I’m afraid that I can’t beyond the vanity of it all enough to appreciate what you do in here.
Anne: (sharply) It’s not just the look of them that I love, it’s the way they behave and the…
(At a loss, walks to the center table.)
…Well, take this one for instance, a common daisy.
She is very forgiving to poor treatment and blooms profusely for long amounts of time. She is a faithful friend, sturdy and long lived. Most of my colleagues would turn their nose up at such a common thing, but I can’t help but value her for the way she grows…
Sylvia: Alright, now you’re making a bit of sense here miss Anne, go on show us another.
Anne: (Now somewhat bolder) Alright, well this one here is called Sarauma henrii. To be honest with you I didn’t care for him at first, you see he is very subtle. But when I looked closer I noticed many ways that he was unique. Sulfur yellow flower bearing only three petals, perfectly placed atop fine gray green heart shaped leaves. I admit that my notice of him was no love affair, but at the time nobody else had heard of him, let alone grew him So, I imagined that I could make quite a name for myself being the one to introduce him to our little horticultural community.
But he is difficult and stubborn to grow from seed. I must have laid thousands of seeds to sow, but to this day only three have sprouted and grown.
I can tell you today that it has been his stubbornness and indifference to my efforts that have caused me to lust after him all the more, and my inability to master him has made me favor him over most others.
Sylvia: (Quietly musing as she listens)
Oh no Anne! You’re in for one hell of a ride if that that’s the way to win your heart! (Beat)
What about this one here, there MUST be a story behind him?
(Pointing to a small, plain pine.)
Anne: Why do you say that?
Sylvia: Well you don’t keep it around for its good looks I can see that plain…
Anne: (Suddenly serious, Sylvia has discovered the heart of Anne’s collection)
I sowed that seed when my father died.
The seed of this plant must be submerged into boiling water. Next it must be cut with a very sharp blade in a few spots on the outer shell. Then rubbed with very course sandpaper over the entire surface, finally it must be thrown into the fire for just long enough, but not too long.
(Anne takes a large seed from the table top, next to the plant and hand it to Sylvia.)
You see the outer shell is so thick and hard that it is like a stone. The wearing down and breaking of this exterior is necessary so that light, water and earth can to enter into the heart of the seed, because that is where its life will begin.
Sylvia: And I accused you of vanity….
(Pouring a second shot for the two of them)
…shame on me!
(Sylvia raises her glass, as does Anne)
To the language of flowers!
Scene 16b
There is little that can be said about the leaving of Neil Breslyn. For what can be said about a man who leaves his family after he has promised them for better or for worse? He was not a scoundrel or a criminal. He held his tongue, probably for years, and did right by his family for the most part. But weather it was the holding of his tongue or the doing right, without turn or reward, he had grown tired of it all. Weary of his role as husband and father, he had allowed himself to question his vows to his wife, and he had even questioned weather or not he had really wanted all those children. Somewhere, in all the questioning and blaming, he had decided that leaving was perhaps not the worst fate he might face in his life. The tempering of his final decision to leave had happened over time. But having long laid on his conscience, as it did, he had already been wearing the shoes of a man who had abandoned his family.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
untitled
A long time ago, somewhere in the countryside, there was an ordinary mound of dirt. It was so small, in fact, that it could hardly even be considered a bump in the road.
On their way to town, people would pass over it. Singing their songs and talking, they scarcely noticed the small mound of earth beneath their feet.
Some of the travelers would take rest on a hillside nearby the road. Lying in the tall meadow grasses, their children would play.
Looking on, the humble mound wished that he would someday be a hillside.
One night, the small mound of dirt sent a wish to the stars.
“Make me a hillside that I may be a sight to behold. I would be a resting place for weary travelers. They might lie against my swaying grasses and find rest. Their children could play, and roll down the curve of my back and pick wildflowers. They would laugh and find happiness.”
And the earth shook beneath the humble mound.
The shifting from far below caused the mound to grow. Up and up it was thrust, until soon the mound became a hill.
Over time, tall grasses grew and swayed in the wind. People found rest in the shade of an oak tree that had grown on its side. Young ones whispered their secrets, schemed their plans and pledged their sacred vows at its top. Children played games upon the back of the hillside, and gathered wildflowers.
All these things happened, just as the hill had wished.
But, there were many small hills in the valley. Soon, the hill realized that it was just one of many hills to behold. How common this made him feel, indeed. He grew discontented and longed to be something greater.
He called to the sky, once again, and wished another wish.
“Make me the tallest hillside in the valley. People of great consequence will vow to climb to my crest and boast in the accomplishment. They will view the valley from my peak. Perhaps they will give me a fine name, that I may be distinguished from all of the other hills in the valley."
And the earth shook beneath the hill. The shifting from far below caused the hill to grow. Up and up it was thrust, until soon, the hill became a mountain.
Explorers came from miles around to climb to its peak. Looking down to the valley below, they would exclaim, “What a magnificent view, indeed!”
Scholars would come and survey the landscape, using the mountains ideal vantage points they drew important maps for kings who ruled over great nations.
The mountain was pleased by its size
But far beyond, just against the horizon, there were mighty mountains that looked like great cities, hanging from the heavens. Gazing upon them, the mountain began to feel as though he would only ever be a mound in comparison to such grand mountains.
So again, as if haunted by the memory of his smallness, he called to the sky once again. “Make me a mighty mountain! Give me rivers and waterfalls that flow down my back. Give me a snow capped crown, that I would truly be something to gaze upon. Men will build a city at my feet, just to be near me!”
And the earth shook beneath the mountain. The shifting from far below caused the mountain to grow. Up and up it was thrust, until it soon became the tallest mountain for thousands of miles.
With its crown high in the heavens, it was ever snow capped. Water flowed generously from its crests and ridges into the town that was built at its base. It became home to an abundance of wildlife. Its wild game, fish, nuts, berries and fruit sustained the townspeople below, who wanted for nothing, neither beauty nor sustenance.
For a time, the Mount was satisfied with itself. Until it occurred to him, surely there must be other mountains of similar, if not surpassing greatness to his own. And by this thought, he was tormented. In a wild fury he sent one final wish to the night sky.
“Make me the greatest mountain in all the world! Let my peaks be many and the girth of my mantle ever reaching, seemingly without end. Make me the king of all other mountains that I may lord over them.”
And the earth shook beneath the great mountain. The shifting from far below caused the mountain to grow. But this time, the shifting was so violent that great rocks fell, leaving the town below in devastation. The Townspeople moved away for fear of the mountain they had once loved. The smooth sides were littered with rocks and jagged boulders. The crown of the mountain had been thrust so far in the sky that its crown was now above cloud cover and could no longer be seen from the ground. Snow and ice covered the entire mountain. Its terrain was too unkind to climb. Its winds were cold and inhospitable even at its base.
His greatness had become so much that he was too high to climb and only fit for passerby’s to marvel at…and his summit was silent, save for the cold whipping wind.
The mountain had grown too tall to climb, too cold to sustain life and too tall to have a desirable vantage point. Now, just as it had wished, it was simply the greatest and tallest mountain.
He missed the falling waters, how they trickled and ran, falling and falling, ever downward, finding stream and river and finally sea.
He remembered the prowess of the explorers whom had scaled and climbed his sides.
Each, having arrived at his summit,they had been formidable contenders all.
He longed for the meadows, and the rolling hills of his smaller days. He missed the laughter of the children that used to roll down his back. He missed spying the schemes of lovers and feeling the strong beating of their hearts, which unbeknown'st to them could be felt deep within the earth.
The wind whipped at its lonly peak and there was a piercing stillness.
He dare not raise this final wish to the night sky, which had long been so obliging to his wishes. Instead he left a lament on the wind, which came to me and so I leave the same to you:
“Such foolish wishes I have made! These wasted years spent wanting, leaving me without sight. And now, though grand, I am all the poorer.
Oh, to be a simple mound of clay! For having tasted greatness, I would surely now revel in the richness of humility. Oh, hallowed smallness, most sacred oneness, this kingdom would I trade for thee.”
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Scene 16a, lilies The Reckoning
Sylvia arrives home after working with Anne in her garden. She is exhausted, and worn. She has little to work with to make dinner.
As she walks in the door her husband, Neil, is sitting in the same place he was when she left this morning. It is obvious he has been drinking, which means he either didn’t find any work or didn’t make any attempt at all.
Sylvia: Don’t suppose anyone came by the house to offer you work today eh?
(She walks into the kitchen with a young one on her hip)
Neil: (Up for a game of it)
Oh yeah, three lawyers came, and a Doctor too. Except I didn’t care much for what they were offering so I had to turn em down flat, the lot of em.
Sylvia: (From the Kitchen, and about to loose her patience)
I’m serious Neil!
(She is mixing what is left of the milk along water and flour. She pours it into a bottle to feed the baby)
Neil: You don’t think I’m serious? You don’t think any Doctors or Lawyers would offer me a job?
(He is obviously drunk and halfway mumbling to himself)
Could’ve been a doctor myself if I’d have been born to the right folks.
(We see Sylvia's face as she realizes he is drunk. Tense and angry. Sensing a fight coming on. She calls to her eldest daughter)
Sylvia: Colleen!
(She comes in and takes the young one from Sylvia knowingly)
Where is your head Neil?
Neil: Better days Sylv. I’m thinking on better days.
Sylvia: Well your kids and I are right here on this day, and we have three potatoes between the nine of us. What do you suppose I cook us for dinner?
Neil: (Laughing Belligerently) Potatoes!
Sylvia: (infuriated)
Goddamn lazy louse, good for nothing, cocky, drunk!
We have nothing Neil, NOTHING! Were behind three months rent a pound of flour and three potatoes to our name, a meal away from starving.
(He hardly flinches)
Starving Neil.
(Beat)
Well I can only assume by the look of you that you were down at the Lavry’s drinking Whiskey, charging up a tab you have no intention of paying and tarnishinhg our families good name , eh?
(In a mumble she she hisses.)
There’s no man left inside you.
Neil: (in hi anger he almost seems sober)
You think I don’t know? You think I haven’t noticed Sylv? This time, this place…
There’s no work to be had, and each day I walk the streets, with the other boys in being reminded of that.
You know what that does to a man? To watch his children go hungry? To feel his wife’s hate for him grow more and more each day for things out of his control
(Sneering, up in her face, she turns her own but does not shudder.)
You think I don’t feel that eh? You think I don’t feel it? You think I don’t see you cringe when I walk through that door, like you can’t stand to look at me?
Well if you’re so high and mighty, why don’t you get a job?
Get paid in scraps, hardly enough to feed your family, fall asleep to their hungry cries at night, and wake up and go do the same goddamn thing, knowing it won’t make any difference.
Sylvia is left standing alone. She is neither surprised or scared of Neil aggression toward her. Instead, a silence falls on the room.
Neil: You used to love to dream with me Sylv. What happened? Remember how we used to sit together for hour just dreamin’ of all the possibilities of what could be? Where is that girl I used to know? I liked her!
Sylvia: (Quite sober)
She woke up Neil! They weren’t plans, they were dreams and dreams don’t put food on the table and a roof over our head now do they?
Neil: Well a drink and a dream sure soften the knocks we take, livin’ like we do. I have that right still don’t I?
(Silence)
Don’t I Sylv?
Sylvia: I gotta tell you your rights now?
What? Have I gotta lend an ear for confession as well? What am I, your keeper Neil?
Neil: You sure have acted like it all these years!
Sylvia: You look to me for all your answers only to curse me for all the things you don’t have and never became!
So what is it then Neil?
(He hangs his head, afraid to say what he is thinking.)
What’s it going to be Neil?
Neil: (Quietly as if admitting defeat)
We can’t go on like this forever.
Sylvia: Why not? Nobody said life was easy.
Neil: That’s just something people say…
Sylvia: Well don’t you think they say it for a reason?
Neil: (Abruptly)
This isn’t working!
Sylvia: You keep repeating yourself and looking to me to say what you mean to, Neil but it really just comes down to one thing. Are you in? Or are you out?
(Silence. His shoulders hang in shame. His eyes lowered from her gaze.)
Neil: I tried…
(And with those two words she realizes that he means to leave them.)
…I’m sorry Sylvia.
Sylvia: Don’t Neil! Don’t you dare! You don’t get to apologize to me, or your children! You walk with that. Do you understand me? You get up and you leave if that’s what you mean to do. But you can take your apology with you because it’s no good here. Your children can’t use an apology in place of a father, and the same goes for me. (She turns from him and he walks out the door. It is that simple.)
Scene 15, lilies More Elton Jennings
Fewer men seemed to be coming into the Ford factory every day for work. The layoffs were becoming more and more of a threat, even to an exemplary employee like Elton Jennings. He took notice of who was missing off of the line each day, and did his best to compensate for their absence. He knew that the harder he worked, the lesser his chances were of loosing his own job.
He felt no great sense of loss for the employees who had been fired. He was indifferent to most of the men on staff. Elton had never really made friends with anyone at work, in particular. He was not unfriendly, not by any means, but he always kept to himself. It was safer for a man to keep to himself; he had decided that long ago. He seldom asked for help or sought direction from fellow employees and he certainly never accepted charity. The kindness of strangers made him feel uncomfortable. He assumed kindness was often time prompted by pity and his pride seldom allowed him to respond graciously as the recipient of such acts.
He was, by nature, an observer an attribute which, paired with his impeccable timing and a flawless work ethic, had spared from the plant lay offs thus far.
He had been reading the papers and studying the stocks quite diligently for the past few months, following the market crash. He understood the massive loss for what it was. He had no investments or stocks and was therefore not blinded by the false hope that many a powerful men were. He knew there was no quick fix or remedy with which to rely upon. The very nature of the beast that was capitalism relied upon the ever waxing and waning of the cultural economy for its success. Calling to mind the words of a hated professor from his earlier years, Elton had sadly come to understand the truth in what he had previously considered flippant cruelty, “Many must fail if a strong few wish to succeed.”
His professor lectured with conviction and yet seemed void of emotion on the principal. Elton often wondered, at the time, if the man had been secretly longing for someone to raise an argument against him. Elton had longed to argue in favor of compassion and the masses, but as a junior, he knew better. There was no point in passionate debates in economics and business. Passion was futile, and often the plaything or court jester of logic and reason. He had gone to school to study logic and reason, not compassion and hope. So he had put them away, compassion and hope, traded them in for tangible and more sensible virtues, ones that heated the house and provided food and shelter for his family.
The scholarly principles, which he had been urged to pursue in order to ensure security, had run a ground. Now, even logic and reason seemed to be on the verge of betraying him. He could feel his bitterness increasing day by day.
He felt no great sense of loss for the employees who had been fired. He was indifferent to most of the men on staff. Elton had never really made friends with anyone at work, in particular. He was not unfriendly, not by any means, but he always kept to himself. It was safer for a man to keep to himself; he had decided that long ago. He seldom asked for help or sought direction from fellow employees and he certainly never accepted charity. The kindness of strangers made him feel uncomfortable. He assumed kindness was often time prompted by pity and his pride seldom allowed him to respond graciously as the recipient of such acts.
He was, by nature, an observer an attribute which, paired with his impeccable timing and a flawless work ethic, had spared from the plant lay offs thus far.
He had been reading the papers and studying the stocks quite diligently for the past few months, following the market crash. He understood the massive loss for what it was. He had no investments or stocks and was therefore not blinded by the false hope that many a powerful men were. He knew there was no quick fix or remedy with which to rely upon. The very nature of the beast that was capitalism relied upon the ever waxing and waning of the cultural economy for its success. Calling to mind the words of a hated professor from his earlier years, Elton had sadly come to understand the truth in what he had previously considered flippant cruelty, “Many must fail if a strong few wish to succeed.”
His professor lectured with conviction and yet seemed void of emotion on the principal. Elton often wondered, at the time, if the man had been secretly longing for someone to raise an argument against him. Elton had longed to argue in favor of compassion and the masses, but as a junior, he knew better. There was no point in passionate debates in economics and business. Passion was futile, and often the plaything or court jester of logic and reason. He had gone to school to study logic and reason, not compassion and hope. So he had put them away, compassion and hope, traded them in for tangible and more sensible virtues, ones that heated the house and provided food and shelter for his family.
The scholarly principles, which he had been urged to pursue in order to ensure security, had run a ground. Now, even logic and reason seemed to be on the verge of betraying him. He could feel his bitterness increasing day by day.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
in·ef·fec·tu·al
James sat brooding in his own thoughts in the steam room next to Bane. “I think Jackie has feelings for me.” Bane almost coughed a laugh! ...
-
“Love never fails” Read the inscription of the gold wedding ring that Sylvia Breslyn removed from her finger. She placed it on the windowsi... -
“Where to Miss?” The cabby looked in the rearview. --- Anne sat in the back seat with her hands wrapped tightly around the handle of her um... -
---As Parochial Vicar of St Josephs Catholic Church and nearing 80 years of age Father Pat seldom heard what he considered a good confession...