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8-02-2007 Jim Atwell Like Ma and Pa Joad, we didn't glance back at our homestead; we steadfastly kept eyes fixed ahead. Against the motor's gargle, I hummed "Red River Valley." But unlike the Joads' trek, ours wasn't across a continent; just 60 yards from house to the barn. There we unpacked in company with Blue the dog and Owen the cat. We four would share digs with the resident mice for Induction Weekend. On Friday the guests began to arrive. Old friends from Annapolis had spotted our ad on the Chamber's website; they moved into Anne's office. Another friendly pair from Massachusetts took over our vacated bedroom. A pleasant dad with a bright nine-year-old son unpacked in my study. And finally, well after dark, Bernie Freiland, my friend for 50 years, pulled in with popup camper, a grown son, and another pair of Oriole zealots. In fact, the whole crowd turned out to be devout Rifkenites, all excited about seeing Cal canonized on Sunday. That was fine since Anne and I greatly admire The Iron Man, too. Why, if we had a tall pole, I could have run up an Orioles flag - if we'd had a flag. The weekend was a blur of early rising in the barn, cooking and serving breakfasts, shuttling guests into the village to spare them parking fees and long waits. Oh, and a fair amount of scrubbing toilets and tubs, too. We did have time to visit with all these interesting folk, especially in the evening. After his party had settled into bed in the pop-up, Bernie Freiland would join us on the back porch, hauling along a bottle of single malt for a kind of communion service. Old friends are surely the best friends. Two highpoints of our innkeepers' weekend to share with you. The first involves Bernie and the solar shower I told you about. I'd decided that the safest place to install the solar shower was at the base of the first flight of steps heading down our steep hillside above Oaks Creek. I clamped a seven-foot tall 2x4 to the lowest upright of the stair railing, hung the three-gallon reservoir on it, and even tested the shower myself. It was as glorious as I had remembered. I stood, dressed like Adam newly made, under cool, running water, amidst lush greenery and in dappled shade. And, best of all, there was little danger of my tumbling the rest of the way down the hillside, through the tangled brambles. During their visit, Bernie's camping cohort had all used the solar shower, and finally came Bernie's turn. With towel and soap, he descended the steps, shucked his clothes, and started washing. Sadly, he didn't know that someone had preceded him down the steps by about 10 minutes. It was the pleasant middle-aged woman who was renting our bedroom. She'd gone all the way down the steep path to the creek and then walked a ways south along its bank. She returned just as Bernie was showering with closed eyes, his head and hair full of soap. The woman, climbing the slope with her own head down, didn't see him till she was almost upon him. Their two shocked outcries, bass and soprano, were loud enough to carry across the field to our screened porch. "Oh, well, come on by," said Bernie, shaken but admirably calm. And the woman did just that, edging past the soapy, notably bare old gent and then heading for the house at a trot. Of course, Bernie and I, now about three score and ten, are mostly past even modest pride in our manly bodies. And further, the woman who edged past Bernie on the stairs makes her living as an intensive- care nurse. She must routinely deal with bodies even more dilapidated than ours. Anyway, all of us, including those two, laughed about their awkward meeting all through the evening. The other event had one of our visitors shaken, even badly frightened, during one night. The previous evening several of us had been sitting around Bernie's scotch bottle on the porch. The father of the bright little boy (who is named, by the way, for the Mighty Cal) asked if our old house had any ghosts. A personable man in his thirties, Richard is a research scientist with joint appointments at U. of Florida and at Duke; his ghost question was academic curiosity. I told him that, to my disappointment, I'd had no direct contact with resident spirits, but that a man working on the house's renovation had had an unnerving experience. Or at least he wife did. She'd brought him his lunch and started ahead of him down our cellar steps to see his current work. Halfway down she froze, then backed up the steps. "Something doesn't want me down there!" she said emphatically, then got in her car and drove away. The worker had to bring his lunch with him after that. Late that evening we headed off to our rest. But at two in the morning the professor woke to an unnerving, relentless rattle. He sat up in bed. The sound was coming from the attic door. It was shaking against its latch as if someone, something, was trying to get into the room. The man of science said he was quickly past any calm analysis. He was downright scared. What malevolent thing was trying to get to him and his sleeping son? "Just then," he told us, "the rattling stopped. In the sudden quiet, the cat made me jump out of my skin by leaping across my legs to sit on the desk and stare out at the moonlight. I was awake the rest of the night and still can't imagine what caused that awful sound." I can. Owen, who should have been outdoors, loves the attic. If the door is unlatched, he'll lie on his side and slip a clawed paw under the door to pull it open. If it's latched, he'll keep rattling it till I abandon writing and get up to unlatch it. So much for the supernatural. Though there's still that baleful Force in the cellar ... Read about Jim Atwell's new book, "From Fly Creek - Celebrating Life in Leatherstocking Country" at JimAtwell. com. |
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