Well, I am back, like last year’s Christmas Fruitcake, from my brief trip overseas. The voyage to and from Copenhagen, home of Andersen, the Little Mermaid, tasty brined fish, and the occasional lost Swede, was uneventful. The only moment of excitement, well, comic relief, was watching some titans of capitalism turn green when we ran into heavy weather in the Belt. Socialism becomes more attractive after you’ve witnessed a member of the Oil Trust all peaked and curled up in a corner of the orlop deck. It is good to be home, and just in time to witness the arrival of the Giant Sheep tomorrow.
While on my trip, I did have occasion to enter into conversation with a few fellow-travellers with me in Steerage—which, curiously, the ship’s purser kept calling the “Service Department” and, remarkably, a few declared they had seen the Sheep in person. One man had seen it being loaded into a special wagon of the B&O Line outside of Fairfax, Virginia; another had spotted it in a special stall erected next to the Capitol in Washington. The consensus was that the Sheep isn’t nearly as big as we’ve been led to believe and, in fact, one of my companions, a solid foe of Imperialism and an advocate of Free Silver, even passed along a Kodak he had taken last year that pretty much proves them right:
I’ve been informed our Sheep is the one in the back by the tree. (I realize that is something that is hard for us to understand, a tree, I mean.) A few people I’ve shown this too already have claimed that the Sheep must be the one on the Right; I think, however, that is unlikely, since this one seems pretty vigorous and independent; no, I think, based on what I’ve been told about the Sheep, it would likely be in the back; it would also make sense that it would be near a tree since, by all accounts, it loves to have its back scratched. In any event, it is not big, not big at all, and more or less the same as all sorts of other sheep. But we’ll just smile, be neighborly, and endure until it and its entourage depart. I just hope they don’t spread mange.
It is with considerable regret that we have learned that Trapper Matt has decided to move to the Coast. We have long known his inordinant fondness for small vessels and the aquatic life; on more than one occasion he has admitted to this correspondent that it has been hard to “square” his trapping small furry creatures with his desire to “live the sailor’s life, aye!” We wish him well and hope that he will once and awhile find his way back to our desiccated plain. If he does, he better bring some snapper. On a far cheerier note, it is a delight to record for posterity what we have all known for the last few days. The Heroic Horseshoeman has won the Company’s Annual “Top Performer” award. This achievement certainly came as no surprise to Dustspec; Vizzini’s prowess in production has long been admired by one and all. That the Company, however, finally recognized this is a source of wonder and amazement. So far, he has only received one prize, a personally autographed copy of the Company’s latest manual:
But he has been informed that there is more coming his way.
It is May, May, May, a month that pretty much everone seems to like but me. Granted, it has some quaint traditions, traditions with deep roots in the rich loam of Anglo-Saxon and Teutonic lore. No doubt, the fair maidens prancing around the Maypole are being animated by the Folk Memory generated by their ancestors among the piney bogs of the Rhine’s mouth. If we had trees, poles, and maidens, we’d likely dance as well. Heck, I’d even settle for a bog. The problem is, behind every pole—well, in fact, every leaping maiden—there is always a darker side lurking. You don’t have to spend much time reading the Golden Bough to discern that many of our festive rituals, like the wax paper covering those new “Liver Cleansing Suppositories” available at Stuntz’s, merely hide something painful and likely of dubious value. Racial memory is all the rage these days. Sure everyone want to be Nordic, as long as you are not the victim hung up in the tree. Thus, rituals, like May itself, are deceptive. Haven’t had a satisfactory May since ’90. Now, I know some, indeed most, of you are far more sanguine than I. May, to you, is a time of renewal. I’ll grant you that, and since we still live in a free country, though the week is not over yet, you are welcome to your view. But what, exactly, is being renewed? Finally, school is out for the summer.
I commend our teacher, Miss Amy, and her pupils for their dedication and hard work. Should any have free time over the summer, I will, again, be offering my series of lectures on why the subjunctive mood must be saved. As always, there should be plenty of room. Until next time…
I’ve yet to meet a patriot behind a tree.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Beware the Night Air, Controversial Sheep, My Trip
Well, I apologize profusely for not writing recently; I’m certain at least one or two may have missed my scattered comments on the tilted “plain of mankind” (to borrow an image from Piers Plowman) that is Dustpec. Had a bout with the vapors; I’m certainly glad that they have finally passed. I blame them, frankly, on the night air. While most of you hold to the scientism of our modern age that blames all on “germ theory,” I, for one, still believe that noxious gasses still play a role in contagion. Well, one way or another, whether you believe it or not, I recommend you avoid the night air. Even if it doesn’t turn you inside out, there may very well be something flying in the wind that is going to hurt you. Take my advice, hunker down, hunker down Dustpecians. Daylight is bad enough.
Seems like every time I am gone—especially those months I was in the Sanatorium—all sorts of controversy breaks forth in Dustpec, breaks forth like a flywheel gone horribly wrong. I remember the time the Crusading Young Editor’s miniature version of the Corliss Engine took on a life of its own and ended up knocking Hoots to the ground. But I digress. I came back to work on Monday and all I kept hearing about was “that damn sheep is coming to Dustpec.” After various enquires, the Wandering Historian finally set me straight on the matter. Seems that people at the Company Store decided to change the theme of its annual “Farm and Ranch Day”—which, traditionally, has been “You have to buy the seed from us, and you will pay again whether it sprouts or not,” to “Sheep: A Model for Young America.” As yet, I haven’t heard anyone who is enthusiastic about this; indeed, most Dustpecians seem just this side of enraged. “We are cattle country!” opined Thunderclap, “at least when they live.” “Sheep are like Congress,” commented Stuntz while mixing an elixir, “they may look docile, but a musty odor bodes no good.” I suppose Miss Amy put it best, “I fail to see why a preternaturally large sheep will inspire our youth to greatness. At best, wool may itch enough to get them to move; at worst, it will cause a rash, a lack of attention, and sloth.” Indeed. One way or another, however, the GIANT SHEEP is coming to Dustpec, and I guess we are going to have to put up with it. I’ve decided to attend. Now, some of you will not, or are going to protest the GIANT SHEEP in various ways—I hear that Trapper Matt is going to wear a hat shaped like a giant bear, and Lightening will wear dark glasses and be dressed like George Sand—that’s fine. After all, it is still a free country, though the week is not yet over. For my part, I’ve decided that I’ll attend and behave; please be assured, however, that this is not mere supine submission on my part nor, to be sure, is this any sign of support for sheep. My unswerving passion for red meat remains the same. I guess, all in all, the coming visit of the GIANT SHEEP is a challenge not dissimilar to the time last year when the “Travelling Temperance Brigade” passed through town on their way Downstate:
We put up with their singing, their unexpectedly swift and random movements, their decidedly monotonous garb, and even their ability to bore dogs into slumber; they eventually left, and we woke up the dog and got back to drinking. So, if we were able to endure them, I don’t see why we can’t put up with the sheep. Then again, what if it decides to pasture here…Well, I’d better close. I’ve got to start packing my trunk for my trip overseas next week. Yes, the King of Denmark has indeed invited me to a royal audience. Seems he’s heard of Manly Thoughts and Dustspec and, in a typical fit of royal whimsy, wants to learn more about our tiny, quadrilateral, oasis of HUMANISM and TRUE PROGRESSIVE THOUGHT out here on the rim of the known world. I’ll be back soon and will report on the herring. Till then…
Our Country’s Independence Was Not Won By Creatures That Bleat
Seems like every time I am gone—especially those months I was in the Sanatorium—all sorts of controversy breaks forth in Dustpec, breaks forth like a flywheel gone horribly wrong. I remember the time the Crusading Young Editor’s miniature version of the Corliss Engine took on a life of its own and ended up knocking Hoots to the ground. But I digress. I came back to work on Monday and all I kept hearing about was “that damn sheep is coming to Dustpec.” After various enquires, the Wandering Historian finally set me straight on the matter. Seems that people at the Company Store decided to change the theme of its annual “Farm and Ranch Day”—which, traditionally, has been “You have to buy the seed from us, and you will pay again whether it sprouts or not,” to “Sheep: A Model for Young America.” As yet, I haven’t heard anyone who is enthusiastic about this; indeed, most Dustpecians seem just this side of enraged. “We are cattle country!” opined Thunderclap, “at least when they live.” “Sheep are like Congress,” commented Stuntz while mixing an elixir, “they may look docile, but a musty odor bodes no good.” I suppose Miss Amy put it best, “I fail to see why a preternaturally large sheep will inspire our youth to greatness. At best, wool may itch enough to get them to move; at worst, it will cause a rash, a lack of attention, and sloth.” Indeed. One way or another, however, the GIANT SHEEP is coming to Dustpec, and I guess we are going to have to put up with it. I’ve decided to attend. Now, some of you will not, or are going to protest the GIANT SHEEP in various ways—I hear that Trapper Matt is going to wear a hat shaped like a giant bear, and Lightening will wear dark glasses and be dressed like George Sand—that’s fine. After all, it is still a free country, though the week is not yet over. For my part, I’ve decided that I’ll attend and behave; please be assured, however, that this is not mere supine submission on my part nor, to be sure, is this any sign of support for sheep. My unswerving passion for red meat remains the same. I guess, all in all, the coming visit of the GIANT SHEEP is a challenge not dissimilar to the time last year when the “Travelling Temperance Brigade” passed through town on their way Downstate:
We put up with their singing, their unexpectedly swift and random movements, their decidedly monotonous garb, and even their ability to bore dogs into slumber; they eventually left, and we woke up the dog and got back to drinking. So, if we were able to endure them, I don’t see why we can’t put up with the sheep. Then again, what if it decides to pasture here…Well, I’d better close. I’ve got to start packing my trunk for my trip overseas next week. Yes, the King of Denmark has indeed invited me to a royal audience. Seems he’s heard of Manly Thoughts and Dustspec and, in a typical fit of royal whimsy, wants to learn more about our tiny, quadrilateral, oasis of HUMANISM and TRUE PROGRESSIVE THOUGHT out here on the rim of the known world. I’ll be back soon and will report on the herring. Till then…
Our Country’s Independence Was Not Won By Creatures That Bleat
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Confidence?, The Tragic Owl, Deceptive Leaves
March 5, 1909
Confidence?, The Tragic Owl, Deceptive Leaves
To one and all, thank you so much for your heartfelt ( I hope) birthday wishes. I promise to continue to flood Dustpec with mordant commentary. The NATIONAL FINANCES are unsteady. The papers are filled with lengthy pieces on THE CRISIS OF CONFIDENCE. From the “Free Silver Mercury” to, my personal favorite, “The Antifederalist Almanac,” commentators all across our republic call for it. Far be it from me to naysay, for it, tempered with a sanguine spirit, is a tonic for problems far and wide. Indeed, it is part of our national fiber. Just ask the Wandering Historian: Our Founding Fathers, Mothers, Children, and, I suspect, even their pets, were hopeful. But now we live in a decayed age; if Henry, Otis, and Washington, if they appeared in the halls of power, would likely be arrested for lunacy. They were confident in Providence, Natural Rights, and the people; we moderns withered and flattened like a deceased fowl (more on that in a bit) prefer CONFIDENCE MEN:
The wide-eyed stare of “Ephraim Jones,” late of the Capital City, is an image that is burned into all our heads. We all recall his cheerful promises two autumns ago, promises that investing in his bank’s TRUST would given us all a stake in the Fertilizer Market, which he intended to corner. Like Gould in the 1870s, he promised that “when a penny in the coffer rings, your fund to prosperity springs.” I should stayed in Mulch which, if not as dramatic as manure, doesn’t linger when it begins to go bad. Ask Thunderclap and Coolbreeze about the compost heap that went wrong, horribly wrong, last week. Now I’m not saying that all the prophets and pundits are like Jones; there may even be a remnant of the noble and good among our legislators, though, like the bluebird of Spring, I’ve yet to see one. All I know is that they, and we know who they are, keep telling us bad news, then tell us to be confident, and then, finally, assure us that we should trust them and follow them, in sum, have confidence in them, because they told us bad news. If I follow the syllogism correctly, it looks something like this:
Things are bad: People tell me they are bad: We lack confidence: We need confidence: Trust them because they have told us things are bad: Be confident.
Honesty may be the best policy, but even a thief can be honest when it suits him. Jones, after all, did tell Mayor Pearson that too much coffee can permanently force your eyes to stay open. No, honesty is not enough; just declaring reality doesn’t mean that you deserve my confidence, such as it is. Which brings me to my next illustration:
Ever since Trapper Matt moved to town, we have grown fond of his pet owls. A few, of course, have met their fates in various fashions, and some have managed to be preserved for posterity by Hoots. I still maintain that his “Patriotic Tableau of Stuffed Owls Resembling Calhoun, Webster, and Clay” is one of the most memorable examples of the taxidermist’s art I’ve ever seen. Indeed, I have encouraged Lightening to compose a suitable poem, preferable in elegiac couplets on the display. Despite our familiarity with these “winged warriors of the night,” who, ever more useful than any politician, consume rodents rather than imitating them, it was still a shock this morning to see the body of one of them—I believe it was Hazlitt—outside the main building of the Academy. A tragic fate, and one that I hope is not an omen. Since the haruspices have left town, having been driving out by a faction—led by Stuntz and Vizzini—who have favored tarot and absinthe as the modern way to divine the future—we’ve no one around to remove and interpret its liver. Thus, any message, beyond the force of gravity and the effects of age, disease, and wind, its lifeless body may be conveying, is lost to us. No doubt, however, someone will soon write that, it is telling us to be confident. Finally, a knot of citizens were gleefully pointing to the one tree last week and its tiny leaves. Apparently, leaves are a GOOD THING because they are a SIGN OF SPRING. That brings me back to the meandering theme of this week’s Hornet: CONFIDENCE? While hardly a relativist, though I do confess that, like Heraclitus, I don’t think I could put my foot in the same river twice—even if we had a river and not just
the ditch down by the fence, which every once and awhile does fill up with uncertain liquid, I am not at all convinced that green shoots on gnarled branches automatically portend good things. They may, after all, be weevils. And even if they are leaves, and that does mean Spring, the season itself isn’t a safe bet. Haven’t had a good April since ’78; that’s when I got fitted for my truss. No, the leaf on the tree is just that; leaves are deceptive. And they die and fall anyway, just like the aforementioned owl. Thus, as far as your correspondent can see—which isn’t all that far—CONFIDENCE, like a dead owl, a leaf, and a ditch, doesn’t guarantee pie for supper. If you clean up the mess, rake the leaves when they fall, and make sure whatever is floating in the ditch doesn’t raise up a miasma, then, I guess, they were seeds of confidence. You may even get a pony. But you worked for it. Back to reading my Bastiat. Till next week…
Don’t build your heaven on earth next to my shed.
Confidence?, The Tragic Owl, Deceptive Leaves
To one and all, thank you so much for your heartfelt ( I hope) birthday wishes. I promise to continue to flood Dustpec with mordant commentary. The NATIONAL FINANCES are unsteady. The papers are filled with lengthy pieces on THE CRISIS OF CONFIDENCE. From the “Free Silver Mercury” to, my personal favorite, “The Antifederalist Almanac,” commentators all across our republic call for it. Far be it from me to naysay, for it, tempered with a sanguine spirit, is a tonic for problems far and wide. Indeed, it is part of our national fiber. Just ask the Wandering Historian: Our Founding Fathers, Mothers, Children, and, I suspect, even their pets, were hopeful. But now we live in a decayed age; if Henry, Otis, and Washington, if they appeared in the halls of power, would likely be arrested for lunacy. They were confident in Providence, Natural Rights, and the people; we moderns withered and flattened like a deceased fowl (more on that in a bit) prefer CONFIDENCE MEN:
The wide-eyed stare of “Ephraim Jones,” late of the Capital City, is an image that is burned into all our heads. We all recall his cheerful promises two autumns ago, promises that investing in his bank’s TRUST would given us all a stake in the Fertilizer Market, which he intended to corner. Like Gould in the 1870s, he promised that “when a penny in the coffer rings, your fund to prosperity springs.” I should stayed in Mulch which, if not as dramatic as manure, doesn’t linger when it begins to go bad. Ask Thunderclap and Coolbreeze about the compost heap that went wrong, horribly wrong, last week. Now I’m not saying that all the prophets and pundits are like Jones; there may even be a remnant of the noble and good among our legislators, though, like the bluebird of Spring, I’ve yet to see one. All I know is that they, and we know who they are, keep telling us bad news, then tell us to be confident, and then, finally, assure us that we should trust them and follow them, in sum, have confidence in them, because they told us bad news. If I follow the syllogism correctly, it looks something like this:
Things are bad: People tell me they are bad: We lack confidence: We need confidence: Trust them because they have told us things are bad: Be confident.
Honesty may be the best policy, but even a thief can be honest when it suits him. Jones, after all, did tell Mayor Pearson that too much coffee can permanently force your eyes to stay open. No, honesty is not enough; just declaring reality doesn’t mean that you deserve my confidence, such as it is. Which brings me to my next illustration:
Ever since Trapper Matt moved to town, we have grown fond of his pet owls. A few, of course, have met their fates in various fashions, and some have managed to be preserved for posterity by Hoots. I still maintain that his “Patriotic Tableau of Stuffed Owls Resembling Calhoun, Webster, and Clay” is one of the most memorable examples of the taxidermist’s art I’ve ever seen. Indeed, I have encouraged Lightening to compose a suitable poem, preferable in elegiac couplets on the display. Despite our familiarity with these “winged warriors of the night,” who, ever more useful than any politician, consume rodents rather than imitating them, it was still a shock this morning to see the body of one of them—I believe it was Hazlitt—outside the main building of the Academy. A tragic fate, and one that I hope is not an omen. Since the haruspices have left town, having been driving out by a faction—led by Stuntz and Vizzini—who have favored tarot and absinthe as the modern way to divine the future—we’ve no one around to remove and interpret its liver. Thus, any message, beyond the force of gravity and the effects of age, disease, and wind, its lifeless body may be conveying, is lost to us. No doubt, however, someone will soon write that, it is telling us to be confident. Finally, a knot of citizens were gleefully pointing to the one tree last week and its tiny leaves. Apparently, leaves are a GOOD THING because they are a SIGN OF SPRING. That brings me back to the meandering theme of this week’s Hornet: CONFIDENCE? While hardly a relativist, though I do confess that, like Heraclitus, I don’t think I could put my foot in the same river twice—even if we had a river and not just
the ditch down by the fence, which every once and awhile does fill up with uncertain liquid, I am not at all convinced that green shoots on gnarled branches automatically portend good things. They may, after all, be weevils. And even if they are leaves, and that does mean Spring, the season itself isn’t a safe bet. Haven’t had a good April since ’78; that’s when I got fitted for my truss. No, the leaf on the tree is just that; leaves are deceptive. And they die and fall anyway, just like the aforementioned owl. Thus, as far as your correspondent can see—which isn’t all that far—CONFIDENCE, like a dead owl, a leaf, and a ditch, doesn’t guarantee pie for supper. If you clean up the mess, rake the leaves when they fall, and make sure whatever is floating in the ditch doesn’t raise up a miasma, then, I guess, they were seeds of confidence. You may even get a pony. But you worked for it. Back to reading my Bastiat. Till next week…
Don’t build your heaven on earth next to my shed.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
In and Out, What blew in,Those Damn Progressives
Well, they, whoever they are, are fond of saying that “March blows in like a Lion and, well, you know the rest.” That’s the problem with proverbial sayings; like my dentures, they wear over time and eventually end up on the shelf. Anyway, we don’t have lions or lambs out here in Dustspec; the closest thing we’ve ever had to the former was the Wandering Historian’s pet Buffalo, Emerson, and, while large and mangy, never had much of the regal in him:
I suppose, given our diminished circumstances out here on the sweeping, beige arc of dirt that we couldn’t have a “king of beasts anyway”; I guess we have to be satisfied with a bison in a sack. In any event, no lions about. Nor do we have lambs, save for the occasional stray left behind by a traveler. More on them in a bit. So, our weather can’t arrive, in a monthly way, according to the traditional proverb. So, I propose a contest, with the winner getting a free beverage paid by me from Stuntz’s Emporium. Dustspec needs a meteorological proverb for the upcoming month. Like it or not, March is going to be here and there’s not much we can do about it. So, what do you think? Does it, perhaps, come in like windblown wall of dirt
And leave like a weary peddler?
It’s up to you. Anyway, it is all about the wind; we all know that. As the Good Book, and I don’t mean Vizzini’s “Manual for Young Ferriers,” says “it blows where it wills.” Of course, it’s not the wind that’s generally the problem; it’s what it propels. More often than not, it is the tiny grains of sand that give you boils or make your cattle bellow—just ask Thunderclap about what it did to his herd last week; sometimes, however, transport “causeth delight,” as the old hymn says, and that’s why we do have reason to rejoice about the gales of Dustpec this week. For they deposited Zephyr Frish in our midst. He decided to stay behind when the “Kellog’s Travelling Players” left after one performance of “An American Tableau Vivant Inspired by Ibsen.” The tortured contures of bourgeois life don’t fit very well on the flattened plain of agrarian survival out there. I guess it was also the polka rendition of “Ghosts” that finally did them in. Go ask Misses Andersen and de la Trinidad and they’ll give you a review. It’ll be unanimous. Zephyr was with them doing their publicity posters and I guess he realized that, while a bird in the hand is better than two in the bush, having a corrugated tin roof over your head in Dustpec is better than ending up destitute in a culvert outside of Liberal, Kansas surrounded by a group of angry thespians. We are glad to have him; he will add fresh fuel to the raging fire of artistic accomplishment that is our Dustspec. Perhaps he’ll join Lightening down at the Tack Store; maybe she’ll tear herself away from reading Stefan Georg; I’d love to see a “magic lantern show”; how about “The Great White Fleet: Columbia’s Glorious Progress or Imperialist Sword on Which America Will Eventually Impale Herself?”
Hard to say. I’ve been reading Freud. My libido, I confess, is for the battleship. Of course, not everyone in our great, if somewhat lurching, Republic, is in favor of such things (battleships, I mean, not graphic design or magic lantern shows.) On the one side, you’ve got those Anti-Imperialists, men like Summers, whom, I admit, I have read on more than one occasion to Mayor Pearson, Hoots, and Trapper Matt down at Stuntz’s. They certainly have nodded on occasion, though I’m not sure if that has meant approval or fatigue. You can’t tell all that much from the movement of the head; it is fist that tends to be more revelatory. Beyond the Anti-Imperialists, however, you’ve got THOSE DAMN PROGRESSIVES, who are maddening in their variety. You’ve got muck-rakers getting PROGRESS ALL OVER MY BOOTS; you’ve got SOCIALISTS heaving bombs at my dugout; you’ve got DEWEY, DAMN, DAMN DEWEY who thinks that the material and efficient causes are somehow more important than the FINAL CAUSE. Great Chain of Being, anyone knows that a seed and a hoe are important but they aren’t an ear of corn, let alone corn pudding. Boy I love corn pudding; the Wandering Historian’s wife makes a mighty fine corn pudding. I’d recommend it. Of course, Miss de la Trinidad does a fine salsa; goes well with the corn. Corn is a lot like living in Dustspec. Once you get beyond the tattered exterior, there is some value. In any event, back to those DAMN PROGRESSIVES. I am all in favor of equal rights; learned that at the sanatorium. Even a man who thinks he is a lampshade sometimes is the first to hear the thunder. But they are going to far because they are telling me that THEIR NOTION OF PROGRESS is the only one. While I do not agree with his polytheism, Symmachus had it right in his defense of the Altar of Victory when he told Bishop Ambrose that “surely there must be more than one road to such a great mystery.” Well, the poets say America is a dream; Trapper Matt sometimes says “America is a loon screaming at dawn,” I say America is a mystery for sure, and you can’t tell me that a bunch of EAST COAST SOPHISTICATES WEARING DERBIES have the only roadmap back to the CITY ON THE HILL. Great, it’s the early twentieth century. Turner tells us the frontier is closed. So now I am trapped alongside ALL THOSE DAMN PROGRESSIVES.
So, at the end of the day, we are stuck , aren’t we? We’re going to get progress whether we like it or not. And with it comes its prophets. As Hoots opined just the other day, “they are like a dead pellican. They are difficult to work with and, once finished, hard to ignore.” I depart on a more cheerful note. In the stress and strain of daily life, a life filled with dust, tumbleweeds, and the occasional terrified cat hurtling past—blown on the winds of change—let us remember that simple amusments often afford the most relief:
I realize we do not, as yet, have a Bowling Alley, let alone a Bowling Congress—which sounds a far more reasonable and useful gathering than the one in Washington—but one can only hope.
Till next week… “Hope Springs Eternal.” That may be true, but “Reality Lands Flat all the Time.”
I suppose, given our diminished circumstances out here on the sweeping, beige arc of dirt that we couldn’t have a “king of beasts anyway”; I guess we have to be satisfied with a bison in a sack. In any event, no lions about. Nor do we have lambs, save for the occasional stray left behind by a traveler. More on them in a bit. So, our weather can’t arrive, in a monthly way, according to the traditional proverb. So, I propose a contest, with the winner getting a free beverage paid by me from Stuntz’s Emporium. Dustspec needs a meteorological proverb for the upcoming month. Like it or not, March is going to be here and there’s not much we can do about it. So, what do you think? Does it, perhaps, come in like windblown wall of dirt
And leave like a weary peddler?
It’s up to you. Anyway, it is all about the wind; we all know that. As the Good Book, and I don’t mean Vizzini’s “Manual for Young Ferriers,” says “it blows where it wills.” Of course, it’s not the wind that’s generally the problem; it’s what it propels. More often than not, it is the tiny grains of sand that give you boils or make your cattle bellow—just ask Thunderclap about what it did to his herd last week; sometimes, however, transport “causeth delight,” as the old hymn says, and that’s why we do have reason to rejoice about the gales of Dustpec this week. For they deposited Zephyr Frish in our midst. He decided to stay behind when the “Kellog’s Travelling Players” left after one performance of “An American Tableau Vivant Inspired by Ibsen.” The tortured contures of bourgeois life don’t fit very well on the flattened plain of agrarian survival out there. I guess it was also the polka rendition of “Ghosts” that finally did them in. Go ask Misses Andersen and de la Trinidad and they’ll give you a review. It’ll be unanimous. Zephyr was with them doing their publicity posters and I guess he realized that, while a bird in the hand is better than two in the bush, having a corrugated tin roof over your head in Dustpec is better than ending up destitute in a culvert outside of Liberal, Kansas surrounded by a group of angry thespians. We are glad to have him; he will add fresh fuel to the raging fire of artistic accomplishment that is our Dustspec. Perhaps he’ll join Lightening down at the Tack Store; maybe she’ll tear herself away from reading Stefan Georg; I’d love to see a “magic lantern show”; how about “The Great White Fleet: Columbia’s Glorious Progress or Imperialist Sword on Which America Will Eventually Impale Herself?”
Hard to say. I’ve been reading Freud. My libido, I confess, is for the battleship. Of course, not everyone in our great, if somewhat lurching, Republic, is in favor of such things (battleships, I mean, not graphic design or magic lantern shows.) On the one side, you’ve got those Anti-Imperialists, men like Summers, whom, I admit, I have read on more than one occasion to Mayor Pearson, Hoots, and Trapper Matt down at Stuntz’s. They certainly have nodded on occasion, though I’m not sure if that has meant approval or fatigue. You can’t tell all that much from the movement of the head; it is fist that tends to be more revelatory. Beyond the Anti-Imperialists, however, you’ve got THOSE DAMN PROGRESSIVES, who are maddening in their variety. You’ve got muck-rakers getting PROGRESS ALL OVER MY BOOTS; you’ve got SOCIALISTS heaving bombs at my dugout; you’ve got DEWEY, DAMN, DAMN DEWEY who thinks that the material and efficient causes are somehow more important than the FINAL CAUSE. Great Chain of Being, anyone knows that a seed and a hoe are important but they aren’t an ear of corn, let alone corn pudding. Boy I love corn pudding; the Wandering Historian’s wife makes a mighty fine corn pudding. I’d recommend it. Of course, Miss de la Trinidad does a fine salsa; goes well with the corn. Corn is a lot like living in Dustspec. Once you get beyond the tattered exterior, there is some value. In any event, back to those DAMN PROGRESSIVES. I am all in favor of equal rights; learned that at the sanatorium. Even a man who thinks he is a lampshade sometimes is the first to hear the thunder. But they are going to far because they are telling me that THEIR NOTION OF PROGRESS is the only one. While I do not agree with his polytheism, Symmachus had it right in his defense of the Altar of Victory when he told Bishop Ambrose that “surely there must be more than one road to such a great mystery.” Well, the poets say America is a dream; Trapper Matt sometimes says “America is a loon screaming at dawn,” I say America is a mystery for sure, and you can’t tell me that a bunch of EAST COAST SOPHISTICATES WEARING DERBIES have the only roadmap back to the CITY ON THE HILL. Great, it’s the early twentieth century. Turner tells us the frontier is closed. So now I am trapped alongside ALL THOSE DAMN PROGRESSIVES.
So, at the end of the day, we are stuck , aren’t we? We’re going to get progress whether we like it or not. And with it comes its prophets. As Hoots opined just the other day, “they are like a dead pellican. They are difficult to work with and, once finished, hard to ignore.” I depart on a more cheerful note. In the stress and strain of daily life, a life filled with dust, tumbleweeds, and the occasional terrified cat hurtling past—blown on the winds of change—let us remember that simple amusments often afford the most relief:
I realize we do not, as yet, have a Bowling Alley, let alone a Bowling Congress—which sounds a far more reasonable and useful gathering than the one in Washington—but one can only hope.
Till next week… “Hope Springs Eternal.” That may be true, but “Reality Lands Flat all the Time.”
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Amnesia Befogs Nation and Other Lapses
Manly thoughts: Dustpec’s Hornet
Amnesia Befogs Nation…
Dustspec remembers all too well….
We all remember “Liver Pill O’Malley” from the Prodigious Melon Festival back in ’03. Many a Dustspecian was beguiled by his promises of “a cleaner liver will drive Columbia.” I confess I was one of them. The portwine blotches on my forehead have almost completely faded; sadly, the most noticeable one still looks like Arkansas. So, we have learned from Experience, that harsh mistress, not to forget. For all that is swallowed is not beneficial; indeed, I believe the liver also to be overrated in matters of health.
The main point is that our great nation has not learned the lessons taught Dustpec. Seems like everyone is forgetting; amnesia has become the national pastime. Take “Limber John Smith,” lately right fielder of the Arkansas City (Kansas) nine:
When asked back in ’99 how he was able to belt no less than 21 home runs in a season, and whether he had had recourse to tonics, he replied “my manly strength is owed solely to the purity of my New England blood and a steady diet of flax.” Now we know better. He must have gotten something from O’Malley; that is the only way to explain his present shrunken form. Blocked it out of his mind, I suppose, just like we do when tumbleweeds cause our cattle to scatter.
Of course, it also comes as little surprise when politicians, those rare fruits of the national orchard, also seem to be a tad “absentminded.” Hoots, the Horseshoeman, and the Misses Coolbreeze and Amy were commenting just the other day down at Stuntz’s (while enjoying a plate of malted baps), that they were surprised it had taken so long for Representative Johnson of Nebraska to remember that he hadn’t paid his excise taxes. I guess when you’ve yelled “Bryan is Right, but could be Righter,” often enough it addles your brain. Now, I’m not surprised that Bryan himself sometimes forgets matters at hand; Our Nation’s Hero is often engulfed in waves of womanly distraction…
I suspect they are also hoping he’ll spill some free silver. But Johnson, who more resembles Trapper Matt’s pet owl, Ticonderoga, should have ample leisure to reflect on his civic obligations.
Come to think of it, it more resembles the late, lamented President McKinley. I suppose, at the end of the day, when the wheezing livestock try to sleep, life gets so busy sometimes that it is hard to keep everything straight. The best you can hope to do, as Miss Bonnie was saying just the other day, is hope that the knot will hold….
Finally, some good news….
Miss Maybell, visiting her cousin, “Thunderclap” Boegner, was able to land what appears to have been a fish down at the old tank. The Crusading Young Editor told me all about it over a round of Big Oranges at Stuntz’s. Congratulations to her, and a general round of surprised exclamation from all of Dustpec. We didn’t think there was anything left in that mudhold save for a few liver flukes. So, maybe, as February writhes its way towards March, there many be a change in our fortune. It’s a lesson to remember for sure: sometimes you’ve just got to put out your line and hope for the best.
Until next week….
Best be upwind of the draft.
Amnesia Befogs Nation…
Dustspec remembers all too well….
We all remember “Liver Pill O’Malley” from the Prodigious Melon Festival back in ’03. Many a Dustspecian was beguiled by his promises of “a cleaner liver will drive Columbia.” I confess I was one of them. The portwine blotches on my forehead have almost completely faded; sadly, the most noticeable one still looks like Arkansas. So, we have learned from Experience, that harsh mistress, not to forget. For all that is swallowed is not beneficial; indeed, I believe the liver also to be overrated in matters of health.
The main point is that our great nation has not learned the lessons taught Dustpec. Seems like everyone is forgetting; amnesia has become the national pastime. Take “Limber John Smith,” lately right fielder of the Arkansas City (Kansas) nine:
When asked back in ’99 how he was able to belt no less than 21 home runs in a season, and whether he had had recourse to tonics, he replied “my manly strength is owed solely to the purity of my New England blood and a steady diet of flax.” Now we know better. He must have gotten something from O’Malley; that is the only way to explain his present shrunken form. Blocked it out of his mind, I suppose, just like we do when tumbleweeds cause our cattle to scatter.
Of course, it also comes as little surprise when politicians, those rare fruits of the national orchard, also seem to be a tad “absentminded.” Hoots, the Horseshoeman, and the Misses Coolbreeze and Amy were commenting just the other day down at Stuntz’s (while enjoying a plate of malted baps), that they were surprised it had taken so long for Representative Johnson of Nebraska to remember that he hadn’t paid his excise taxes. I guess when you’ve yelled “Bryan is Right, but could be Righter,” often enough it addles your brain. Now, I’m not surprised that Bryan himself sometimes forgets matters at hand; Our Nation’s Hero is often engulfed in waves of womanly distraction…
I suspect they are also hoping he’ll spill some free silver. But Johnson, who more resembles Trapper Matt’s pet owl, Ticonderoga, should have ample leisure to reflect on his civic obligations.
Come to think of it, it more resembles the late, lamented President McKinley. I suppose, at the end of the day, when the wheezing livestock try to sleep, life gets so busy sometimes that it is hard to keep everything straight. The best you can hope to do, as Miss Bonnie was saying just the other day, is hope that the knot will hold….
Finally, some good news….
Miss Maybell, visiting her cousin, “Thunderclap” Boegner, was able to land what appears to have been a fish down at the old tank. The Crusading Young Editor told me all about it over a round of Big Oranges at Stuntz’s. Congratulations to her, and a general round of surprised exclamation from all of Dustpec. We didn’t think there was anything left in that mudhold save for a few liver flukes. So, maybe, as February writhes its way towards March, there many be a change in our fortune. It’s a lesson to remember for sure: sometimes you’ve just got to put out your line and hope for the best.
Until next week….
Best be upwind of the draft.
Manly Thoughts: Dustspec's Hornet
Manly thoughts: Dustpec’s Hornet
18 February 1909
Revival: Yours or Mine? Harmony? Morgan’s Nose
Despite the urgings of fellow Dustspecians, especially Misses Coolbreeze and Andersen, I just couldn’t drag myself away from my studies to attend Monday’s “Prosperity Camp Meeting and Old-Time Revival” out by the telephone pole. Hope you didn’t take offense; goodness knows my spirits could use some stimulation. I was just engrossed in the latest bundle of newspapers, both Hearst’s and Pulitzer’s, that arrived last Friday from the Capital City. It is always instructive to see other points of view, especially when you are teetering on the brink. As Hoots always says, taxidermy is always about the second opinion. From what I hear, the Reverend Billy “Bullion for All” Smith preached quite a sermon and there were at least three who came forward at the end. I’m glad that his injuries were not too serious. When the Horseshoeman, the Crusading Young Editor, and Thunderclap encounter Religion, mixed with a liberal dose of Free Trade, they get pretty stirred up. I remember that Chautauqua Speaker a few years ago who preached the gospel of Eugenic Reform and Savings Habits Among Our Youth a bit too forcefully down in front of Stuntz’s. After they got through with him, he looked like Morgan’s nose on a cold day. More on that simile, and its potential for prognostication, in a bit. In any event, I’m relieved they let him off lightly with only a few broken bones, a dislocated sense of purpose, and the realization that “the Invisible Hand” isn’t much protection in a real fight. Though I did not attend, I am greatly comforted by the fact the Revival, notwithstanding the attendant mayhem, did come to town. For it explains the mystery of the tarp, which I’ve been hearing about ever since I came back to town. You need a tarp on the ground if you are going to put up a tent, and you need a tent, naturally, to hold a tent meeting, which is the customary location for a Revival. So it all makes sense; a syllogism appropriate to the brown, god-fearing, suspicious landscape that is Dustspec. As the “Wandering Historian” explained to me yesterday, “You can’t raise up until you put down. That was the fault of the Oneida Community.” Mayor Pearson also agreed, when, afterwards over a round of Big Oranges at Stuntz’s, he opined “An angel in the forest must be visible above the trees.” I agreed, though this typically gnomic remark made my head hurt. I haven’t seen many trees in recent years. I believe, however, he was talking about the New Harmony community back in Indiana, which Trapper Matt once visited on an excursion east to show his pelts:
Well, I doubt the pelts did that, though Trapper Matt may have. He has strong views on utopian experiments. I should also ask Lightening MacDonald about what this structure may mean. Is it the wood or the spaces between that matters the most?
Anyway, as I mentioned earlier, I have been hard at work at my studies and the creation of the odd simile. The papers certainly were filled with much fodder for reflection and commentary, particularly the New York Herald, which devoted much space to
The paper referred to him as Mr. Morgan, and not J.P. which, I guess, would be too familiar. The article accompanying the picture was all about his wealth and vision for America. The wealthier he gets, the better he can see what to do with our country. I guess such men are like Lord Clark’s pet bull, Slocum; when it has a mind to move, it does so. Doesn’t matter whether it is forwards or backwards, or over your foot, it’s all progress to him. To my mind, and here the simile reappears like the gasping starlings that return every year to Dustspec about this time of year, the world right now seems a lot like Morgan’s nose. Indeed, I wonder if the modern-day haruspices could augur our future from it, for it is certainly large, blotched, and shaped like the liver of a sacrificial goose from the waning days of Republican Rome. Perhaps the aforementioned Press could take daily readings of the Stock Exchange, Milo Prices, and What to Do With Cuba, from the subtle variations in its size and shading. I also read in the Weekly Voice of the Anti-Imperialist League and Populist Intelligencer that I am not alone in such speculations for Lehar, the well-known Viennese composer of operettas, has been hard at work on an offering from the coming autumn that draws inspiration from this nasal harbinger of fortune. Entitled “Des Millionäres Nase,” it is apparently a love story between a wealthy, lonely, man and his maid; he discovers that true love is not about money or class; she finds out that, all in all, a man, especially a millionaire, is more than just his looks. Sounds charming and vaguely uplifting, which is more than you can say about the picture above. Well, I’d better close. If I stay inside much longer, I’ll molt. Till next time…
Revival, like an enthusiastic sneeze, is episodic in nature.
18 February 1909
Revival: Yours or Mine? Harmony? Morgan’s Nose
Despite the urgings of fellow Dustspecians, especially Misses Coolbreeze and Andersen, I just couldn’t drag myself away from my studies to attend Monday’s “Prosperity Camp Meeting and Old-Time Revival” out by the telephone pole. Hope you didn’t take offense; goodness knows my spirits could use some stimulation. I was just engrossed in the latest bundle of newspapers, both Hearst’s and Pulitzer’s, that arrived last Friday from the Capital City. It is always instructive to see other points of view, especially when you are teetering on the brink. As Hoots always says, taxidermy is always about the second opinion. From what I hear, the Reverend Billy “Bullion for All” Smith preached quite a sermon and there were at least three who came forward at the end. I’m glad that his injuries were not too serious. When the Horseshoeman, the Crusading Young Editor, and Thunderclap encounter Religion, mixed with a liberal dose of Free Trade, they get pretty stirred up. I remember that Chautauqua Speaker a few years ago who preached the gospel of Eugenic Reform and Savings Habits Among Our Youth a bit too forcefully down in front of Stuntz’s. After they got through with him, he looked like Morgan’s nose on a cold day. More on that simile, and its potential for prognostication, in a bit. In any event, I’m relieved they let him off lightly with only a few broken bones, a dislocated sense of purpose, and the realization that “the Invisible Hand” isn’t much protection in a real fight. Though I did not attend, I am greatly comforted by the fact the Revival, notwithstanding the attendant mayhem, did come to town. For it explains the mystery of the tarp, which I’ve been hearing about ever since I came back to town. You need a tarp on the ground if you are going to put up a tent, and you need a tent, naturally, to hold a tent meeting, which is the customary location for a Revival. So it all makes sense; a syllogism appropriate to the brown, god-fearing, suspicious landscape that is Dustspec. As the “Wandering Historian” explained to me yesterday, “You can’t raise up until you put down. That was the fault of the Oneida Community.” Mayor Pearson also agreed, when, afterwards over a round of Big Oranges at Stuntz’s, he opined “An angel in the forest must be visible above the trees.” I agreed, though this typically gnomic remark made my head hurt. I haven’t seen many trees in recent years. I believe, however, he was talking about the New Harmony community back in Indiana, which Trapper Matt once visited on an excursion east to show his pelts:
Well, I doubt the pelts did that, though Trapper Matt may have. He has strong views on utopian experiments. I should also ask Lightening MacDonald about what this structure may mean. Is it the wood or the spaces between that matters the most?
Anyway, as I mentioned earlier, I have been hard at work at my studies and the creation of the odd simile. The papers certainly were filled with much fodder for reflection and commentary, particularly the New York Herald, which devoted much space to
The paper referred to him as Mr. Morgan, and not J.P. which, I guess, would be too familiar. The article accompanying the picture was all about his wealth and vision for America. The wealthier he gets, the better he can see what to do with our country. I guess such men are like Lord Clark’s pet bull, Slocum; when it has a mind to move, it does so. Doesn’t matter whether it is forwards or backwards, or over your foot, it’s all progress to him. To my mind, and here the simile reappears like the gasping starlings that return every year to Dustspec about this time of year, the world right now seems a lot like Morgan’s nose. Indeed, I wonder if the modern-day haruspices could augur our future from it, for it is certainly large, blotched, and shaped like the liver of a sacrificial goose from the waning days of Republican Rome. Perhaps the aforementioned Press could take daily readings of the Stock Exchange, Milo Prices, and What to Do With Cuba, from the subtle variations in its size and shading. I also read in the Weekly Voice of the Anti-Imperialist League and Populist Intelligencer that I am not alone in such speculations for Lehar, the well-known Viennese composer of operettas, has been hard at work on an offering from the coming autumn that draws inspiration from this nasal harbinger of fortune. Entitled “Des Millionäres Nase,” it is apparently a love story between a wealthy, lonely, man and his maid; he discovers that true love is not about money or class; she finds out that, all in all, a man, especially a millionaire, is more than just his looks. Sounds charming and vaguely uplifting, which is more than you can say about the picture above. Well, I’d better close. If I stay inside much longer, I’ll molt. Till next time…
Revival, like an enthusiastic sneeze, is episodic in nature.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Dustspec Desires Covering! “Service Station” to Open?
Dustspec Desires Covering! “Service Station” to Open?
Well, it’s good to be out, finally, of the Sanatorium. Dewlap convinced the doctors that I wasn’t contagious anymore. Of course, it may have been Mayor Pearson’s scowl that ultimately did the trick. The important thing is that, after three years, I’m sprung and can put finger to key.
The French say that “the more things change, the more they stay the same.” Of course, they say it in French, but I’m not going to try. Always feel like I need a shower after speaking or writing French. Anyway, the maxim “doth apply” as the Old Bard once said. A few of you are new; some of the old timers have gone on to pastures which, given our location on the Cartesian grip of brown, are probably greener. I hear Sly Rich Parrish got a government job that has something to do with intelligence. Didn’t know they had them. And, alongside old hands like “The Crusading Young Editor,” the aforementioned Mayor, who has taken over from Lord Clark, who is on a mission trip with his wife to evangelize the Baltic States who, Lord knows, need it, The Young Historian, “Hoots” Rausch, The Horseshoemaker, Jean down at the Emporium, Reverend Riney, and Trapper Matt, I’ve been mighty glad to meet Coolbreeze Trinidad and Thunderclap Boegner. It was a distinct pleasure to make the acquaintance of Miss Amy, who is guiding our youth. It is also refreshing—though not as refreshing as a nice, wet snow would be—to see that the old livery stable has been reopened by Lightening MacDonald. We’ve had a real need for fresh rope; it’s just too hard to grow hemp out here. It is also a nice touch that she’s announced that she’ll also be operating a printing press. Perhaps we’ll get a literary circle going here and even get a Chautauqua to come. Read the complete works of Swedenborg while in the Sanatorium. It’d be good to have someone to talk to about him. She also told me that her husband, whom everyone seems to call the “Metaphysician,” is working in Kentucky but hopes to move permanently to Dustspec before too long. Had a relative from Lexington visit once, but he didn’t stay long. Came on the train, looked around, had dinner, and left. Said he couldn’t feature a place that had no trees. He had a passion for burls. Well, you can’t please everyone, especially family. I hope that he, that is the Metaphysician, will be willing to talk to me and not just to himself. You see, we had a bunch of Neo-Platonist at the Sanatorium and, no matter what you asked them, “How are you today?” or “Do you think we’ll have corn at supper,” or even something that would stir most people up, something like “Do you think the Great White Fleet is a statement of America’s newfound embrace of imperialism or simply a gleaming, vaguely phallic, symbol of republicanism and hope for the new century?”—no matter what, they’d just mutter, “I’m not really here, I’m not really here.” And I shudder to think about the bearded orderly who occasionally screamed “Occam’s Razor.” Folks say, however, he is right neighborly, so I am pleased. Well, in sum, we’ve got quite a crowd now in Dustspec. Let’s tear something down. Seems like all the news is about “Bailouts.” Never heard about the hard rain while I was in the Sanatorium. Then again, people may have been talking about it, but when you live for several years in a building with a tin roof, you pretty much become deaf to any noise, whether sheets of rain, gentle mist, or the thud made bydying fowl plummeting from the heights. Anyway, I’ve been both intrigued and perplexed by al this talk. Things look mighty dry here; I wonder why Dustpec needs bailouts. A few people have also been muttering about a “Tarp,” over their Root Beers at Jean’s Emporium. (Sure missed those in the Sanatorium. Tepid broth gets old, very old, very quickly. It lacks pep.) I could see a tarp being handy, because the wind sure doesn’t blow any easier today than three years ago. But you’d need to tie it down; so, I guess the tarp must come with stakes and rope. Otherwise, the tarp would just fly around and, at best, would do nobody any good, and at worst, might hit someone and knock them down. Come to think of it, the tarp might not be any good; we don’t generally get the best supplies from down state. I remember that mule the Capital City sent as a gift to the Academy a few years ago.They said it was supposed to help our service—more on that in a bit--and that it was our fault that it died. Oh well, maybe this tarp will be better than that mule. At least it won’t cough blood. Hoots never could get it mounted properly.
If I had my say, which I never do, I’d want to use that tarp to cover up the old bar ditch. The passage of time has not been kind and, as the photo shows, it’s getting more cragged than Elihu Root. Amid the throngs—well, handful—of well-wishers who’ve greeted me on my return, I’ve been most perplexed by my conversations with Mayor Pearson about the new “Service Station.”
I thought, at first, that it was one of those places where you buy gasoline and get your automobile fixed. Saw a couple of those Downstate; looked pretty fancy. I had a Root Beer at one.
Then I remembered that no one in Dustpec owns an automobile. Only the rich people in the Capital City can afford them. No, we don’t have exotic forms of locomotion here, though I’ve always thought the Horseshoemakers Phaeton to be pretty “spiffy.” So, I guess it must be some sort of other kind of “station.” We had a station in the Sanatorium where they kept the elixirs, but I rather doubt the State would send one of those up here. I sure wouldn’t mind, because one of my best memories of the last three year was getting rubbed down with “Perry’s Linseed Oil.” It helped my joints and I smelled like porridge for the next three days. You can’t beat that. But, again, they keep all the good stuff Downstate anyway. We’d probably get a can of creosote at best. So, you all let me know what this Service Station or Department is supposed to be. I’m ready to get back to work. Just don’t make me weave flax. That’s all they’d let me do in the Sanatorium.
We’ll, I’d better close. Don’t have the energy I used to have. Need my tonic. But it is sure good to be back. I even missed the Dust. It makes you squint and sometimes then you miss seeing just how bad things can be.
Till next time…
Government promises change, but that’s from the dollar they took from you.
Well, it’s good to be out, finally, of the Sanatorium. Dewlap convinced the doctors that I wasn’t contagious anymore. Of course, it may have been Mayor Pearson’s scowl that ultimately did the trick. The important thing is that, after three years, I’m sprung and can put finger to key.
The French say that “the more things change, the more they stay the same.” Of course, they say it in French, but I’m not going to try. Always feel like I need a shower after speaking or writing French. Anyway, the maxim “doth apply” as the Old Bard once said. A few of you are new; some of the old timers have gone on to pastures which, given our location on the Cartesian grip of brown, are probably greener. I hear Sly Rich Parrish got a government job that has something to do with intelligence. Didn’t know they had them. And, alongside old hands like “The Crusading Young Editor,” the aforementioned Mayor, who has taken over from Lord Clark, who is on a mission trip with his wife to evangelize the Baltic States who, Lord knows, need it, The Young Historian, “Hoots” Rausch, The Horseshoemaker, Jean down at the Emporium, Reverend Riney, and Trapper Matt, I’ve been mighty glad to meet Coolbreeze Trinidad and Thunderclap Boegner. It was a distinct pleasure to make the acquaintance of Miss Amy, who is guiding our youth. It is also refreshing—though not as refreshing as a nice, wet snow would be—to see that the old livery stable has been reopened by Lightening MacDonald. We’ve had a real need for fresh rope; it’s just too hard to grow hemp out here. It is also a nice touch that she’s announced that she’ll also be operating a printing press. Perhaps we’ll get a literary circle going here and even get a Chautauqua to come. Read the complete works of Swedenborg while in the Sanatorium. It’d be good to have someone to talk to about him. She also told me that her husband, whom everyone seems to call the “Metaphysician,” is working in Kentucky but hopes to move permanently to Dustspec before too long. Had a relative from Lexington visit once, but he didn’t stay long. Came on the train, looked around, had dinner, and left. Said he couldn’t feature a place that had no trees. He had a passion for burls. Well, you can’t please everyone, especially family. I hope that he, that is the Metaphysician, will be willing to talk to me and not just to himself. You see, we had a bunch of Neo-Platonist at the Sanatorium and, no matter what you asked them, “How are you today?” or “Do you think we’ll have corn at supper,” or even something that would stir most people up, something like “Do you think the Great White Fleet is a statement of America’s newfound embrace of imperialism or simply a gleaming, vaguely phallic, symbol of republicanism and hope for the new century?”—no matter what, they’d just mutter, “I’m not really here, I’m not really here.” And I shudder to think about the bearded orderly who occasionally screamed “Occam’s Razor.” Folks say, however, he is right neighborly, so I am pleased. Well, in sum, we’ve got quite a crowd now in Dustspec. Let’s tear something down. Seems like all the news is about “Bailouts.” Never heard about the hard rain while I was in the Sanatorium. Then again, people may have been talking about it, but when you live for several years in a building with a tin roof, you pretty much become deaf to any noise, whether sheets of rain, gentle mist, or the thud made bydying fowl plummeting from the heights. Anyway, I’ve been both intrigued and perplexed by al this talk. Things look mighty dry here; I wonder why Dustpec needs bailouts. A few people have also been muttering about a “Tarp,” over their Root Beers at Jean’s Emporium. (Sure missed those in the Sanatorium. Tepid broth gets old, very old, very quickly. It lacks pep.) I could see a tarp being handy, because the wind sure doesn’t blow any easier today than three years ago. But you’d need to tie it down; so, I guess the tarp must come with stakes and rope. Otherwise, the tarp would just fly around and, at best, would do nobody any good, and at worst, might hit someone and knock them down. Come to think of it, the tarp might not be any good; we don’t generally get the best supplies from down state. I remember that mule the Capital City sent as a gift to the Academy a few years ago.They said it was supposed to help our service—more on that in a bit--and that it was our fault that it died. Oh well, maybe this tarp will be better than that mule. At least it won’t cough blood. Hoots never could get it mounted properly.
If I had my say, which I never do, I’d want to use that tarp to cover up the old bar ditch. The passage of time has not been kind and, as the photo shows, it’s getting more cragged than Elihu Root. Amid the throngs—well, handful—of well-wishers who’ve greeted me on my return, I’ve been most perplexed by my conversations with Mayor Pearson about the new “Service Station.”
I thought, at first, that it was one of those places where you buy gasoline and get your automobile fixed. Saw a couple of those Downstate; looked pretty fancy. I had a Root Beer at one.
Then I remembered that no one in Dustpec owns an automobile. Only the rich people in the Capital City can afford them. No, we don’t have exotic forms of locomotion here, though I’ve always thought the Horseshoemakers Phaeton to be pretty “spiffy.” So, I guess it must be some sort of other kind of “station.” We had a station in the Sanatorium where they kept the elixirs, but I rather doubt the State would send one of those up here. I sure wouldn’t mind, because one of my best memories of the last three year was getting rubbed down with “Perry’s Linseed Oil.” It helped my joints and I smelled like porridge for the next three days. You can’t beat that. But, again, they keep all the good stuff Downstate anyway. We’d probably get a can of creosote at best. So, you all let me know what this Service Station or Department is supposed to be. I’m ready to get back to work. Just don’t make me weave flax. That’s all they’d let me do in the Sanatorium.
We’ll, I’d better close. Don’t have the energy I used to have. Need my tonic. But it is sure good to be back. I even missed the Dust. It makes you squint and sometimes then you miss seeing just how bad things can be.
Till next time…
Government promises change, but that’s from the dollar they took from you.
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