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.