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.”
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
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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