While The Cat’s Away

“Sir, does your cat fly?” my assistant, Mr. Afterthought, called from the outer office.

In a rather matter-of-fact tone, I might add.

“Come again, Mr. A?”

Oh yes, I had heard him clearly but really, is there any other appropriate response?

“I say, does your cat fly sir? As far as you know?” he elaborated.

“No, Mr. A. Not as far as I know.” I went on, “In fact, I will venture to be unequivocal on this point.” I cleared my throat. “My cat does not fly.”

“Odd,” said Mr. Afterthought.

I waited for more but all I heard was the shuffling of paper.

“Was there something else, Mr. A?”

I mean, spit it out man, let’s have it. If you are saying it is odd that my cat does not fly, well, it just seems to me that a much more substantial elaboration is called for here.

“Well sir, your neighbor has sent a messenger with an unusual complaint. Regarding your cat, sir.”

“Yes?” I rose from my desk and walked into the outer office.

“It seems the cat…” he searched for the right word, “…appears…in her chess club every so many minutes. At all hours sir.”

“Appears?”

“Yes sir. As if he’d flown in.”

“Flown?”

“Yes sir.” He handed me the note.

Hmmm.

“Does he play chess, sir?”

“Pardon?”

“Your cat,” he said.

“Uhh, no. I think I can be rather unequivocal about that one too.”

“It’s good to hear sir.”

I finished reading the note. “Cancel my afternoon, Mr. A.” I grabbed my coat and prepared to go out into the snow of Winterfell.

“But Ambassador, all you have is a pickup by the dry cleaner,” Mr. Afterthought said as he looked at my calendar.

“Well, cancel that then. No, don’t cancel that. Uhm…well, do whatever it is you do when I’m not here. OK?”

“Yes sir.”

“I will have to go and investigate this matter straight away, at the pub.”

“How convenient sir.”

***

Ulysses The Cat has been living in Storytellers Pub in Winterfell Laudanum for quite some time now. He makes himself scarce when customers are in but when things are quiet, he’ll roam around as if a deputy on patrol.

But a couple nights ago, about an hour before last call, Ulysses wandered in from wherever he goes and roamed about the bar and the adjoining sitting room. He stayed clear of patrons looking to pet him but otherwise ignored the diners and drinkers.

After closing, I was watching Ulysses make his rounds as I enjoyed one last round of my own. I lost sight of him a few times but I was half-reading the paper and tending to my tobacco and liquor and not paying that much attention.

Now as I worked my way across the snowy streets of Winterfell, I began trying to remember fully those “lost sight of” moments There must be some explanation other than a flying cat.

***

Iggy was working the bar when I arrived.

“Hey boss,” he said as I took a seat, “Lunch?”

“Yes, starting with a pint,” I said.

“You got it.”

I gave him a look.

“Sorry. I meant — Straight away sir.”

I smiled. Iggy is new, an apprentice time traveller from the 21st century who is visiting Winterfell and Caledon and studying here for the summer. Yes, it’s January…well, it’s summer in his hometime. His sponsor with the Time Travellers Guild is a friend of Uncle Manuel back in Dankoville. Iggy arrived with a letter of introduction from my uncle. He’s picking up some spending money, tending bar at the pub.

“Have you seen Ulysses?” I asked.

“Yes sir. He was running around here just a moment ago.” We both looked around for the cat, who was nowhere in sight.

“You haven’t noticed anything different about him, have you Iggy?”

“I don’t think so, boss.”

I told him about the complaint from the chess club.

“There were a couple of times yesterday when it did seem like he was here one minute and gone the next,” Iggy said. “And maybe the other way around as well. It was busy here though, I didn’t have time to really notice. Did seem like he sort of vanished.”

Hmmm. A disappearing flying cat.

It was quiet in the pub, the weather had seen to that. More snow. It was still a quarter to noon, the lunch crowd hadn’t come in quite yet and while they might not add up to a crowd on a day like this, there would still be a few.

In the middle of my brisket sandwich (it’s our lunch special on Tuesdays), accompanied by a delightfully dill pickle and some chips, I saw Ulysses out of the corner of my eye, sniffing at the red ball of yarn I’d left for him in the sitting room.

I watched him play and then wander around the pub. When he came near I said hello but he paid me no mind and trotted past. I broke off a tiny bit of brisket and held it near the floor. After a moment of watching me, Ulysses approached and took the brisket.

When he finished eating, he resumed his rounds. A few minutes later, I saw him run behind the bar and I got up and walked around it to offer him more brisket. But he wasn’t there.

I continued looking. Iggy looked too. No cat. A couple of minutes passed. I returned to my seat.

And there was Ulysses, over in the corner by the bookcase. How did he get by us without notice?

The only thing I could do was order another pint and monitor that cat. A few regulars and a few others had braved the weather and were now enjoying lunch. Iggy was handling the small group alone and seemed to be keeping up.

I watched Ulysses go from one corner of the pub to another and points in between,  stopping here and there to stare or wash or scratch, looking every bit like a normal cat.

At one point he seemed to disappear. I don’t mean that literally. I simply lost track of him. He’d gone behind the bar and not come out, as before. I went behind the bar to look and again, no cat. I returned to my seat. Hmmm.

A few minutes later I noticed Ulysses in the corner by the bookcase.

I had not seen him fly nor had I seen him disappear. But something was definitely going on. Mr. Afterthought had been right, this was odd. Very odd.

“He must have some hiding place,” Iggy said as he returned from taking an order.

I finished my pint and Iggy came to clear my plate.

“Leave that,” I said. There was a small piece of brisket remaining. I cut it down further and took a piece. I walked around behind the bar as Iggy went about his work.

I stood there and watched Ulysses’ every move. I did not take my eyes off him.

After staring at the fireplace in the sitting room for a few minutes, Ulysses came back into the front room and started for the area behind the bar. I watched him approach me. I  knelt down to offer him the brisket. I reached out. He saw the brisket in my hand and watched to see what I would do. When it was clear to him I was not about to move, he came toward me to take the brisket.

But before he could, he disappeared.

I do mean that literally this time. He was there one moment but not the next. Iggy saw it too. We looked at each other. “Quickly,” I said and ran out the front door. “Charles,” Iggy said to the busboy as he tossed him his bar cloth, “you have the conn.”

Around the corner and down the street I ran with Iggy trailing behind, to the Queen Alice Chess Club.

The door was open and I ran right in and stopped. No one was in presently. Then Iggy came running in and nearly crashed into me and did succeed in knocking over a vase of flowers – which fortunately he caught before it hit the floor.

We looked at each other and grinned, sheepishly. The silliness of the moment caught us both and we laughed. Two grown men – one with a handful of brisket – running through the streets in the snow, no topcoats, and running full speed into a chess club, of all places, chasing after a disappearing flying cat.

Well, here we were. Now what? Our laughter died and we both stood there, neither knowing what our next move should be. (A little chess club humor ;))

“Do you play, boss?” Iggy motioned to a chessboard in the middle of the room.

“Not really,” I said, “my brother Hudson is the chess master in the family. My father was quite fond of chess, more so in his younger days…”

As I waxed on about the history of chess in the Whitfield family, Iggy took a seat and started playing a match by himself. We were both caught by surprise when Ulysses trotted in from the next room. He appeared a bit surprised as well.

Iggy and I exchanged glances but did not move. I felt something soggy in my hand and then remembered the brisket. Slowly, I knelt.

“Here ya go, boy.” I said quietly and reached out.

Ulysses sat and looked at me, then Iggy, then my hand. He came to me and took the brisket and ate it immediately. He looked at me, asking if there was more. “All gone,” I said as I reached to pet him.

Ulysses rubbed his head against my hand, then turned and looked at Iggy again as if asking if he had any brisket. He walked back toward the next room. But he never made it. Poof.

Iggy jumped up from the chessboard, ready to run back to the pub.

“I’m going to wait here,” I said, “you’d better go back and see how Charles is doing. And keep a watch for Ulysses.”

“Okay boss.”

***

About ten minutes went by, give or take. And then Ulysses went by. And then he was gone again.

I sat down at the chessboard and resumed Iggy’s match. I should have asked him to send Charles over with a pint of stout. I lit a cigar and waited for Ulysses to reappear.

A few minutes later, there he was, sniffing at a plant in the corner. A minute later, he was gone again.

This was one of those times that I wished I carried a timepiece. It might be helpful to determine whether Ulysses was making his appearances at the chess club at regular intervals. It might also help to know exactly how long he spends in the chess club on each visit and whether that interval coincides with the amount of time he is gone from the pub. Or does he have additional stops on his route?

And, even though both Iggy and I have seen Ulysses vanish right before our eyes, we must still eliminate any possible means the cat could use to cover the territory between the pub and the chess club. We can’t just assume he goes from pub to club in a snap. That may well be the case but still…we must prove it or at least disprove other methods.

I began thinking about how to answer these questions. One person could be stationed at the pub with a timepiece and another at the chess club with same. Another could be stationed halfway down the street to see if Ulysess passes through on the way between the two. A fourth should be stationed in the tunnels below the street. Until I saw Ulysses vanish before me, I would have guessed the only recently-discovered Winterfell tunnels might come into play here. Now, I don’t think so but still, we must eliminate that possibility. A fifth person must be assigned to watch the skies…just in case we have a flying cat on our hands. A disappearing flying cat.

A team of five people would be needed and I, of course, would oversee this entire operation, stationed…at the bar. Well, it is conveniently located. (Mr. Afterthought was right again!) That makes six people – and the appropriate timing devices and photographic equipment – to record the comings and goings of a cat.

As an explorer who has led expeditions into unknown places and times, the idea of six people tracking the movement of a cat – and the associated cost of such an endeavor – did seem to border on the ridiculous. In fact, it may have pushed beyond that border.

Still, what choice do I have? My cat is entering the chess club on a regular basis without so much as applying for membership. If I am going to put a stop to it – and I must for the sake of my neighbor – then I have to find out first, exactly what is causing this phenomenon.

I can just hear them now at the Time Travellers Guild when I tell them my cat can disappear into thin air.

At least I can still say I haven’t seen him fly. Yet.

***

Queen Alice Chess Club

http://maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Winterfell%20Laudanum/138/226/22

Storytellers Pub

http://maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Winterfell%20Laudanum/206/209/22

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Seamus & Me

Awhile back on these pages, I was telling you a couple stories involving my old friend Seamus Gumbo. Did I ever tell you how we became friends?

It was back when I was Mayor.

Haven’t I mentioned that before? Hmmm…

For a few years I ran a small town in the latter half of the 20th century. Up north. Nice little town square. A couple dozen shops, a few offices, a bunch of brownstone apartment buildings in two directions, woods to the north, a lake to the west. Fairport. Nice town. The port wasn’t much. Just a small dock. But it had been a local shipping center back in the day as Fairport was located at the confluence of the Deitide River and Fair Lake and there was access to the railroad.

At the corner of Hamilton and Main, across from the Fairport Convention Center, was the local head shop. It was a gathering place for musicians, writers, artists and other creative types. A lot of younger people hung out there, as you might expect.

When I was campaigning for Mayor, I had to give serious thought to whether to stop in and shake hands with the proprietor. I had to think about how it would look if an opponent or a newspaper columnist or some busy body made a big deal out of a candidate going into a head shop. I had to weigh that against the fact that this was a locally-owned business selling completely legal products and the owner was accepted by the business community and belonged to the Chamber of Commerce. And I had to consider its popularity too. I wondered what the balance was between the pro-head shop and anti-head shop vote. I also considered that my two opponents – who, unlike me, had lived in the town their entire lives – probably would never even consider going in there.

Six weeks before the election, the local newspaper’s poll had me running second, just two points ahead of the third place finisher and eight points behind the guy in first. My campaign manager – the owner of the local shoe repair shop – met me at the diner on the morning the poll came out.

“We gotta do something to shake things up,” he said.

“Yeah,” I agreed, “It’s not looking too good, is it?”

“You know how the baseball managers, when they’re six games out with six weeks to go, they tell the reporters, ‘We just gotta pick up a game a week and we’re right there.’ You’ve heard that, right?”

I nodded.

“Well, they never do it,” he said. “And we’re eight points down with six weeks to go. We need better than a point a week.”

“You’re really cheering me up,” I said.

“Good,” he answered. “Put on that happy face and go out and shake every hand in the business district.”

“I already did that.”

“Do it again. Six weeks to Election Day – now they’re finally paying real attention. Get in there and talk to every one of them about something that matters to them. An issue, the town, their business, their family, whatever it is. Just let them know you’re a nice guy and you’re listening to what matters to them. And whatever thing they make their biggest point about, write it down in a notebook. Right there in front of them. People see a candidate writing down their complaint or their idea, they’re gonna vote for that candidate. Plus, you’ll have a new list of things to address in your appearances the rest of the way.”

“Okay,” I said.

“So go see everybody again. And see anybody you missed. Did you miss anybody?”

“Just the head shop owner,” I said.

He thought a moment. “What do you think?” he asked.

“I think he probably knows I visited every shop around him but not him. Though I’m sure Hendricks and Ross did the same.”

“Well,” he said as he assessed the risk, “like I said, we gotta do something to shake things up.”

I nodded.

“If you’re the only one who goes in there, he’s going to tell all his friends. And they’re going to love you for recognizing them as part of the community. And if the others make a stink, the head shop people might rally behind you.”

“The Head Shop People?” I laughed. “Isn’t that a band?”

He laughed. “Might be. Why don’t you go over there and ask them?”

I did. There wasn’t any fallout. Nor did the Head Shop People get out the vote and lead me to a landslide win. There was no impact on the election at all. But other things happened in the campaign and it seemed the race was tightening. And when it was over, I had been elected.

Which leads me to my story…

I’ll never forget the second time I met Seamus Gumbo.

A couple weeks after I was sworn in as Mayor of Fairport, I walked into Gumbo’s Head Shop. I had been making it a point to stop into one local business every day to discuss what we were doing to address various issues. During the campaign, I thought it over first before coming in here and now as Mayor, I did ask myself the question again. But I didn’t have to think about it for more than ten seconds this time. It was the right thing to do. It was a legal business and I was treating it like any other. I expected this visit to be pretty much like at all the other shops.

But you know it wasn’t. If it was, I wouldn’t be telling you about it…

“What’s happenin’ Mr. Mayor?” Seamus greeted me. He put down a box of Zig-Zag and came out from behind the counter to shake my hand. “Welcome back. Thanks for stopping by. What can I do for you today? Maybe a nice pipe? We have some on special, now check this out…”

He pulled out from a display case, a tray of pipes and bowls of various sizes and colors.

“See anything you like?”

“I wasn’t really shopping,” I said, “I came in to chat.”

“Oh, of course, Mr. Mayor.” He put the pipe tray back in the display.

“Please call me Danko,” I smiled.

“Thank you Danko. And call me Seamus.”

We talked about some on-going issues such as traffic flow downtown and the need for more public parking.

Then a delivery man interrupted us.

“Come on back, Mr. May — Danko. I just have to hold the back door for Jake, we can keep talking.”

We walked behind the counter and into the stockroom, past Seamus’ office to the back door. He held the door as Jake the delivery man unloaded boxes from his truck. Seamus and I continued to talk about town business.

When Jake was done, Seamus spoke with him for a moment and signed a receipt and stood in the door as Jake pulled out of the alleyway. I was looking at the posters on the wall outside his office.

“Hey Danko,” Seamus half-whispered.

I turned toward the door but he had stepped outside into the alley. I walked through the doorway and as I did a strong whiff of marijuana entered my nostrils and Seamus’ outstretched hand was offering me a joint.

I stopped short.

Seamus was holding in his first toke and motioning to me to take the joint.

I walked past him and down the alley. About halfway. Looked around. Checked the height of the fence and whether there were any open windows on the building next door.

I walked back to Seamus and took the joint. I puffed. And handed it back.

We said nothing. Just smoked.

After we each had several hits, Seamus said, “I can’t believe I’m getting high with the Mayor!”

“I can’t believe I’m getting high, period,” I said as I took another hit.

“When’s the last time you got high?” Seamus asked.

“Must be twenty years,” I answered as I handed the joint back to him.

“The last time you got high was twenty years ago?” Seamus asked in surprise.

I hesitated for a second. But I took a chance…and answered truthfully.

“Twenty years from now,” I said.

Seamus was about to put the joint to his lips as he heard me. He stopped and looked at me. Then he looked at the joint. “This stuff must be better than I thought,” he said.

I laughed. Seamus took another puff. As he held it in, he spoke…in that gutteral way people do when they’re holding in a mouthful of pot smoke, “So let me get this straight. You’re saying the last time you smoked a jay was twenty years from now?” He paused. “In the future?” He continued to hold that puff while I responded.

“That’s what I’m saying.” I smiled.

“Uh-huh,” Seamus looked me over as he blew out the smoke. “You’re not going to tell me you’re a Time Wizard, are you?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head.

“Didn’t think so,” he said.

He handed me the joint. I looked him in the eye.

“You?” I asked.

He smiled. “Yup,” he said. I would have had no reason to suspect Seamus was a Time Wizard but after he broached the subject, I could see where this conversation was going.

I took a hit. And in my gutteral voice said, “Time traveller,” as I tapped my chest with the fingers that weren’t holding the joint.

“Son of a gun,” Seamus said smiling. “What are the odds, man?!!”

We shared a laugh. And the rest of that joint.

Back in the day: Seamus in Gumbo’s Head Shop.

 

Danko In Dankoville

The bus stopped right at the front gate.

I stepped off, put down my bag and took it all in. The green and white farmhouse, the red barn, tractor and other equipment, fields as far as I could see.

Whitfield Farms.

Looked pretty much like it did when I was here two weeks ago.

Only that was 53 years from now.

It might look the same but this was not the same place. Much would be different. Fifty-three years is a long time.

Someone was standing in the doorway, looking. I picked up my suitcase and walked toward the front steps. A young man stepped out.

“Do I know you?” he asked right off.

“Yes.”

He looked at me as if he sensed something.

“You’ve come through time,” he said.

“Yes,” I nodded.

“You’re a Whitfield,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Which one? No, wait!” he held his hand up as if to stop me. He thought a moment, looking me over.

“Are you my brother Hudson’s boy?”

“Yes, Uncle,” I replied.

He laughed and slapped his knee.

“Well, Danko, what the heck are you doing here? I just saw you not three weeks ago. You’re a cute little tyke,” he held his hand, palm down, about three feet off the ground.

We both laughed.

“I’ve come to see you, Uncle. I need your help with something.”

“Sure, sure. Whatever I can do. Come on in and make yourself at home,” he led me by the arm and we walked into the house.

“You must be hungry,” he said. “No, sir, I just had a meal in town,” I answered. “Well, then let me fix you some lemonade or maybe a stiff drink after riding a bus all day,” said Manuel. “Two days,” I corrected.

“Where the heck were you coming from?’ he asked. “Kansas City,” I said. “Kansas City?!! What the heck were you doing there? You couldn’t get any closer?” asked Manuel. I shook my head no. “Damn!” he said.

My Uncle Manuel was now about half my age. When I last saw him two weeks ago, he was closer to twice my age.

He showed me to the guest room. I unpacked and washed up and then joined him on the back porch.

“Here we are, Danko.” Manuel placed a tray with a pitcher of lemonade, a bottle of vodka, a bowl of ice and two tall glasses on the old wooden table. I nodded my approval of the combination and he opened the vodka and poured a healthy shot into each glass. He added two ice cubes to each one and poured the lemonade.

“Sip it. It goes down easily,” Manuel said, “Cheers.”

We sipped.

I told him I had come to this time to learn a bit about farm work. “I can only stay a week, so I’ll just get a taste of it, to give me an idea of the average worker’s day.” I didn’t tell him that I’d be doing this same thing in a future time too nor anything else about my research including and especially ‘why‘ I needed to know this. Of course, he must have been curious but he knew not to ask. I couldn’t come back here and tell him what his life would be like in fifty years, that he would be retiring and turning the farm over to me and his son, not yet born. It wouldn’t be right.

“I’m glad I can be of help,” the young Manuel said after I’d finished my explanation. “It can be my first project to file with the Guild. I was just accepted as a member.” “Yes,” I said, “I just read that in the paper. Congratulations.” In the Time Travellers Guild, not only is your official resume built on the timejumps you make but also on the help you give to other time travellers.

The sun had set and Manuel had lit a candle. We finished our second round of vodka & lemonade and went into the house.

Family members would be coming in soon.

“My father might not approve of your project,” the young Manuel told me as he set the table for supper.

“Oh?”

“He’s pretty conservative about the use of time travel. Not like his father. Or your father,” Manuel said. He went on to explain that my grandfather felt that time travel should be used sparingly and only in cases of the utmost importance. This school of thought has always been part of the time travellers’ community though a small part.

“He won’t hold it against you. Much,” said Manuel. We both laughed. “He respects people with differing opinions but he will not be shy about expressing his own,” Manuel said with a smile.

“Thanks for the heads up, Uncle,” I said as I followed Manuel into the kitchen so he could check on the venison in the oven.

As the family arrived home from the fields or from town, each was surprised to see me, of course, but greeted me warmly.

Grandmother came home first from a trip into town and was absolutely thrilled when Manuel told her who I was. “I’m so pleased to be able to see what a fine man you become,” she said.

Then Chester came in from the fields. Young, handsome, big smile. This was my uncle but he was only 19 now. “Howdy, Nephew,” Chester said in his booming voice, then turned to my grandmother, “They sure grow up fast, don’t they Ma?” There were giggles all around.

A car pulled in and my uncles’ wives got out with bags of groceries. I was introduced to Jean, Manuel’s wife and Helen, Chester’s wife and then they headed into the kitchen to prepare supper.

Finally, Grandfather came in through the back door. He had made his usual rounds of the fields at the end of the day and secured the barn. I could hear him joking with my aunts in the kitchen as he passed through.

My grandfather was now just a few years older than me. Manuel introduced us. Grandfather shook my hand with both of his. “Welcome home, Danko,” he paused and I could see his emotions were on the verge of taking over. “Your parents just brought you here a few weeks ago, you were just a boy. They were so happy,” he held back the tears. I knew then that he knew, from his own time travels, of my parents’ fate. It appeared the others did not know. I gave Grandfather a hug.

We sat down to a wonderful meal of venison from the nearby woods and vegetables from the farm. Afterward, the men went out to the back porch for a tobacco break and the ladies shared tea in the living room.

I had told my reason for coming here through time over supper. Now Grandfather was lighting his pipe and telling me that Manuel will be a good teacher.

But that didn’t necessarily mean he approved of my reason for being here. Just as his son had told me he would, Grandfather launched into his argument about the appropriate use of time travel.

Manuel and I listened dutifully and respectfully.

At one point, Grandfather talked about the younger generations using time travel “willy nilly” and looked at me and Manuel and shook his head and said, “You young people…I don’t know.”

I had listened quietly as I had decided not to argue with my grandfather but now, to lighten up the conversation, I started to take exception to being referred to as young by smiling and saying, “I’m 44, sir, not so young anymore!” But Grandfather turned to me and said in response, “If you’d come here the natural way, you’d be five years old right now!”

Well, I couldn’t argue with that. So I just smiled politely as Manuel tried to hide a snicker. The conversation moved on to my training and the things Grandfather and Manuel would be showing me.

Then we discussed whether to let it be known that the source of the town’s name was in town. Chester suggested I continue to be Mitchell Whitfield and we just keep the whole thing quiet. But I want to stop by the Time Travellers Guild and once I do, the word will get out.

“If there’s no getting around it, then we must hit it head on,” said Grandfather. “We will have an announcement, a ceremony, and a reception. Let the town celebrate its history. People could use a special occasion right now.“

I nodded in agreement. Grandfather would make the arrangements in the morning. We joined the ladies inside and Grandfather filled them in about the festivities. Then he telephoned a friend at the Dankoville Morning News.

The next day, on the front page, the banner headline said simply:

Danko In Dankoville!

I couldn’t buy a drink in that town for the rest of the week.

Of Dankoville And Time

Travelling back and forth to the Ages of Devokan got my mind going in all sorts of directions.

When I arrived back at my Winterfell office, there was a letter from my cousin Robbie. He was away on farming business in the 26th century and was sending his congratulations on my appointment to head Whitfield Farms.

His letter also mentioned some progress on a personal matter he was looking into for me in that time, involving my late father.

Robbie suggested learning a bit about farming would be a good idea on my part both for the job of leading the farm corporation but also in the matter regarding my father.

He didn’t mean I should learn about the business of farming – which I also have to do though at least I’ve had some exposure to it conferring with Uncle Manuel over the years – but rather, Robbie was referring to agriculture itself.

That got the mind going.

In a bit of a daydream, it hit me that the best way for me to have learned about farming would have been to have worked alongside Uncle Manuel when he was a young man, learning it from his father, my grandfather.

Hmmm.

I could do that now if I wanted to. I am a time traveller, after all.

I went through the rest of the mail and checked the newspapers and radio and caught up on the Winterfell news and made my way over to the Storytellers Pub for lunch.

I mulled over the idea from the daydream.

That afternoon, I tended to some ambassador’s business and then some personal matters, clearing my desk so I could be away for a few days.

That evening, after supper, I began packing for 1960, mid-America.

As you know, dear reader, I have never revealed my method of travelling through time. I have confirmed that I have used some methods that others rely upon but this was more in the line of research on my part. Normally, I use a method that has been in my family for five generations. I have no desire to reveal that method.

But I will say, it’s not the magic act some people think it is. It is science.

Now, myself, I am not a scientist, merely a time traveller. I know the technique to carry out the operation. Don’t ask me to explain how it works. My father was the scientist.

However, time travel is not an exact science. Not even for a veteran traveller like me.

In the morning, I was in the Greyhound bus terminal in Kansas City, standing in line, staring at a placard advertisement on the side of the bus proclaiming “Nixon Now!” my suitcase in one hand, a ticket to Dankoville in the other.

I hate buses. I would have much preferred the train. Well, what I would REALLY prefer is direct delivery to the chosen point but, as I say, time travel is not an exact science. My back and legs are still stiff from that damn bus so pardon me for venting, I’m a bit grumpy.

The trip took a couple of days. One afternoon the bus pulled in to Dankoville. I walked into the park in the center of town and stood there for a few minutes, stretching the muscles a bit.

You might be wondering about the name of the town. That’s a very long story. I don’t even know all of it yet. The thing that Robbie is looking into for me in the 26^th century? That may fill in some of the blanks. When I have it all, I will share it with you, I promise.

For now, let me just tell you that the first time I was in this town was in 1863. I was four years old and was accompanying my father on a trip through time.

In those days, the town was called, Turner. The Turner family had owned the town and everybody in it. They were a mining company that was working the mountains to the north.

The area had been “Indian territory” until only a few years before when the Native tribes were pushed further west by the growing white population. The ongoing Civil War had slowed this attack on the Native people for the moment.

The Turner Mining Company drew people from the big western cities: Cincinnati, Pittsburgh, Cleveland, Chicago, Toronto and Detroit who were looking for work and others from either side of the Mason-Dixon who wanted to escape the war.

But the Turners owned everything and they treated their workers poorly for the most part, the only exceptions being friends of the family or the few others who became their pawns to keep the town under control.

Anyone who fell from the grace of the Turners had no choice but to leave town. There was no work for them. The thing about that, it wasn’t easy to get here in those times but it was easier than getting back. So some people were stuck here with few ways to make a buck.

A few people who lost their jobs with the Turner company took to farming the areas outside of town that had been recently abandoned by the Natives. These were squatters, just trying to get by on land that no one claimed ownership of and in a place where there was no one to file that claim with anyway. The land was dry, no one cared about it, no one of consequence that is.

My father, Hudson Whitfield III, arrived here in the late 1850s and began working with the farmers. He was an organizer, a child of the 1930s. What he saw around him in that decade framed his view of life. As an adult, he went back to the 1930s and became enamored with and involved with the union movement of the time.

It was with that background that my father came here on a time travel job to Turner. I don’t know the details of the job but it was likely a simple delivery. He stayed in town for a few days, possibly waiting for a meeting with his client or whomever his client sent him to see.

While he was here, he somehow came in contact with one of the former Turner employees who was now farming a plot a few miles from town.

Those farms out there were not doing well. The people who owned them were poor, their crops were small and their tools were simple. Their knowledge of the land and growing a crop and raising animals was limited. They were city people, working by trial and error. Under these conditions, errors were costly…in human terms. The people out there were hungry, illness was everywhere. These folks needed some help to make their farms thrive and grow.

I don’t know what happened after that. All I know is that about five years after he first came here, my father was now returning – with me in tow –– and he was being welcomed back as a hero!

As the stagecoach pulled in to the little town, people were running alongside, shouting greetings at my father.

“Welcome back Professor Whitfield!” It came from men and boys running with us and ladies and girls standing outside the shops.

When we pulled up, a man dressed in his Sunday best opened the door of the carriage and welcomed my father as he stepped out. They shook hands, then my father turned around and grabbed me up and put me down on the street in front of him. The well-dressed man bent over, shook my little hand and said, “Welcome to our town, Master Whitfield. I am Mr. Davis.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Davis,” I said and then tipped my cap and bowed, just as my father had taught me. “Oh, what a fine young gentleman we have here,” Mr. Davis said to my father, who smiled at Mr. Davis and then at me.

We went inside to Mr. Davis’ office and there I was given a comfy seat and a picture book to look through and Mr. Davis’ assistant, Sally, brought me some lemonade and sat with me. My father and Mr. Davis went off to the local saloon where the rest of the town was waiting to toast my father.

Looking back, I’d guess that Mr. Davis was the mayor or the president of the Chamber of Commerce or the leader of a citizens group or the like.

That’s all I can actually remember, I was just four years old. Well…I do remember that Sally was a real fox but that is neither here nor there. As I say, I was only four.

All I know, is that by the time we left town a couple of days later, the sign that said “Turner” had been knocked down and burned ceremoniously and a brand new sign put up that said “Dankoville” and my father and me and Mr. Davis had our photograph made standing under that sign by a man with a contraption that he said was a camera.

I’d give anything to know what transpired in those few days…as well as in the few years leading up to that trip.

But here I am, stretching in a park in that same town, 97 years later. And 40 years older. Hmmm. Yes, I know that’s confusing. But I just told you one story I can’t fully explain so don’t get me going on that one now.

I walked across the street into the Town Tavern, the place I had just bought 53 years from now and renamed The Evergreen Pub.

Wow, looks different, that’s for sure.

“Sit anywhere, hon,” said the waitress as I wiped my feet on the doormat. It was early spring and a bit muddy.

I took a seat by the window and put down my bag.

The waitress approached with a menu, a napkin, silverware and a glass of water. “You here for plantin’ season?” she asked in a friendly manner.

“Uhhh…yes, I am, matter of fact, Miss,” I said in what my research showed was the style of the time.

She smiled. “Specials are on the back. Breakfast all day. My name is Sally, holler when you’re ready.”

Sally?!! She was very cute too. Is this a coincidence or am I in one of those time warp thingies?

The place was quiet. It was a weekday, late afternoon. A couple of men sat at the bar, locals for sure. A man sat alone, a couple tables away from me, I took him to be from out of town. Like me, I suppose, but this town had my name on it.

I had a BLT with potato chips and a Coke. Typical American lunch of this time. The man at the other table was going for supper, meatloaf.

Sally walked toward my table as I finished my sandwich and asked, “Can I get ya something a little stronger than Coke?” Hmmm. “Yes, how about a beer?” “Draft?” she asked. “Yes, that would be just fine.” “And you, sir?” she looked to the man at the other table. “Yes. Draft,” he said.

I stared out the window at the main drag. It was quiet. A car would pass from time to time, a pedestrian or two. There were people in the ice cream shop across the way.

“When’s the next bus to Whitfield Crossing?” I asked Sally as she brought the beer to my table. “You want the number 7 bus, hon. Runs every half hour. Marty, do we have a bus schedule?” she hollered at the man tending bar.

Sally brought the beer to the other table and went up to the bar to get the bus schedule and delivered it to my table. “Here ya go, hon.”

“You going down to the farm?” Sally asked as I took the pamphlet with the bus timetable.

“Yes, I am.” “Are you one of the Whitfields?” she asked quietly. “Yes, I am,” I said again and smiled.

She looked at me, inquisitively. I knew the question that was coming so I answered first. “Mitchell,” I said.

“Mitchell Whitfield?” she asked. “Yes,” I confirmed.

“Oh I’ve heard of you,” Sally smiled. “Don’t believe everything you hear,” I said with a laugh. “Oh, only good things, Mr. Whitfield, only good things,” She laughed. I did too.

Sally went to the other table. The man ordered another meatloaf to go and Sally headed back to the kitchen.

I walked over to a table near the door where the newspapers were laid out and picked up the Strange County Times. Back at my seat, I worked on my beer slowly, paged through the newspaper and watched the sun sinking slowly toward the end of its workday.

Mitchell Whitfield was the name my Uncle Chester came up with, to use whenever he had to admit to being a Whitfield in these parts but when he didn’t want to reveal his true identity or was simply trying to avoid a lengthy conversation. It worked too. No surprise that Crazy Chester would come up with something like that. The fact that Sally said she’d heard the name here in 1960, made me realize Uncle Chester had been using that trick for a long time.

I wasn’t trying to avoid a lengthy conversation but I did want to hide my true identity…though just for the moment. If I gave my real first name and word got around that the fellow this town was named after was in town for the first time in nearly 100 years, the news would be all over town before I could even get myself to the family farm. I wanted to avoid that, mainly because no one in the family was expecting me to show up like this and I didn’t want to be made of in the bar and treated like a celebrity. I just wanted to finish my beer in peace and catch the next bus out of town.

The Strange County Times was the type of paper that carried just the local news. The county legislature and town council business, the police blotter, the volunteer fire department log, Chamber of Commerce press releases, the lost and found and social announcements. I came across a short item from the local chapter of the Time Travellers Guild. Manuel Whitfield, the man I was here to see, my uncle who at this time was in his twenties, had been accepted as the chapter’s newest member.

I folded the newspaper and walked over and returned it to the table by the door just as Sally was bringing the other man his meatloaf to go and one of the two local men at the bar burst into laughter as they continued to drink and talk. I walked up to the bar and handed my bill to the bartender, paid and went back to the table to leave a tip and get my suitcase. I said, “Thank you!” as I stepped toward the front door. The bartender nodded and Sally shouted, “Come back again, soon, hon,” as she again disappeared into the kitchen.

Outside, I walked down the street a bit. Still had about 10 minutes to kill before the next bus. I turned and walked back toward the bar. I saw the other customer from the nearby table come out the side door and walk over to a pickup truck that had a camper attached to it.

I stopped. “Nice day,” I ventured. “Yes it is,” said the man, who looked to be about sixty or so. “Pretty good meatloaf in there, huh?” I offered as I thought about asking this man which way he was headed and maybe hitch a ride.

“Yeah…Oh it’s not for me,” said the man as he motioned to the meatloaf, wrapped in aluminum foil in his other hand.

He opened the door of the camper, looked inside and said, “Okay, boy,” and a French poodle jumped out. The dog looked around for a moment and trotted toward a clump of bushes and some trees behind the tavern. The man half-leaned, half-sat in the back doorway of the truck, waiting for the dog. He reached into the pocket of his well-worn jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

“Headed south by any chance?” I asked. “No. Sorry. Headed west,” he said. “Ahhh,” I nodded and looked down the road in the direction the bus would be coming from.

“Homecoming?” the man asked. “Sort of,” I replied, then added, “It’s been a long trip.” The man nodded and lit a cigarette.

“How far west, you headed?” I asked, just making small talk. “All the way,” he answered. “Homecoming?” I asked. “Oh…maybe. In a way,” the man replied with a slight smile.

“What do you do?” the man asked me as he looked toward the bushes the dog had disappeared behind.

“I’m a writer,” I said.

“Really,” the man looked me over and let out some smoke. “What do you write about?” he asked.

“My travels, mostly.”

He puffed on his cigarette, “Me too,” he said softly. He was staring at the ground and after a moment he blew out the smoke.

I looked at him. Was he also saying he is a writer and that he writes about his travels? I wasn’t sure whether to inquire further so I kept quiet to see if he would offer anything else.

But he just kept working that cigarette…puffing, inhaling, exhaling, looking at the cigarette and turning it between his fingers and puffing again.

Finally, the dog returned, stepping from out of the bushes and sitting, waiting for his master to speak.

“Good boy,” said the man as he balanced the meatloaf and cigarette in one hand while using the other to pull back the aluminum foil. He placed it on the ground.

“Here you go, Charley boy,” he said.

I blinked.

Could this be…?

The dog went straight for the feast of meatloaf. I shuffled my feet a bit…not sure what to say or whether to say anything.

Just then, I heard the bus approaching.

“Good luck with your book, sir,” I said as I leaned over to pick up my bag. When I straightened up, I saw the man was staring at me. “I mean, your trip, sir. Good luck with your trip.” I turned and walked toward the bus stop.

I didn’t look back but I heard the man say, “Attaboy, Charley. Let’s go boy, let’s go now.”

The bus pulled up, stopping just past the tavern.  Two other people were waiting for it as well and I stood by as they boarded. I looked back and saw the camper pull out of the parking lot. I waved at it. The man didn’t see me.

As his truck passed around the bus, and headed west down the road, I noticed it had New York plates.

“What are the chances?” I asked myself as I got on the bus.

The next day, as I was beginning to settle in at the family farm, I thumbed through my grandfather’s bookshelves. I pulled down a copy of one of my favorites and turned to the back to see the author’s biography and his photo.

Well, I’ll be damned!

Oktoberfest

It was Saturday night and we were headed into town.

A while back Uncle Manuel sent word that the old Town Tavern was about to be put up for sale. I had just opened a pub in Winterfell but had just closed one on the SL Mainland. The idea of owning a pub near the family homestead sounded nice. My cousin Robbie handled the arrangements and hired the contractors to fix up the building. My sister Annie hired the managers and staff. I’d coordinated with them from afar and I was most anxious to see the place.

We were on the way to The Evergreen Pub in Dankoville. My pub, my town. Now, mind you, the town thing is a long and complicated story. We’ll get to that but not right now.

Tonight, we’re keeping it simple. We’re celebrating beer! The Evergreen Pub is hosting a little home-coming celebration for me along with a business coup: The Evergreen has negotiated a deal with The Pheasant’s Roost Tavern in Ravenbaile, Ireland to become the exclusive distributor of Pheasant’s Ale throughout the Greater Dankoville area. The managers at The Evergreen have done a great job though I will say that I did pull a few strings on this one, myself. Ever since I visited the Augurey Peak region and was introduced to Pheasant’s Ale…well, let’s just say I go out of my way to get back there whenever I can. And tonight, we will have one of the bartenders from The Pheasant’s Roost as our guest of honor. And just to have one more thing to celebrate, one of the managers had dubbed the event, “Oktoberfest Beer Tasting.” Although celebrating Oktoberfest with Irish beer and Italian/American pizza did seem a bit suspect. But a party is a party, I guess.

Annie was driving Uncle Manuel’s Desoto Firesweep. Uncle was in the back with Grace and I was riding shotgun. It’s not quite as impressive as it sounds. The car was built in 1957 but it is not 56 years old. It’s two years old. Uncle Manuel had it imported from the mid-20th century.

North on Route 131, passing through the town of Strange – which is the smart thing to do in the town of Strange, pass through. Or so they say. Myself, I’ve never had any trouble there. But I’ve heard some stories about that town. Some mysterious stuff.

Annie had been pointing out changes along the way as Manuel and Grace discussed local politics. Dankoville looked pretty much as I remembered it. A couple of new buildings mixed in with the old. “And here comes your office,” Annie said. “My office?!!” “Yes, on the left. Let’s see if they put the sign up yet…oh yes! Oh, that looks nice. You’ll be all set!”

I got a quick look as we passed the building. “A two-story building? For me?” I spoke quietly and hoped Uncle Manuel was too involved in talking with Grace to hear me. “When I said ‘office,’ I meant one of the guest rooms at the house. Not even the whole room. I thought I’d share with Robbie. All I wanted was a desk,” I said, trying to moderate the sound of protest in my voice. But Annie kept right on selling, “Oh Danko, we’re full up at the house now. And you need to be in town to conduct business and network and be seen and get a feel for what’s going on in the community.”

I wasn’t going to argue with her in front of Uncle Manuel and Grace – and maybe she was right, I hadn’t thought about it. Why would I? This trip was supposed to be about Manuel passing the operation of Whitfield Farms down to his son, Robertson. I just came to find out what the details were and to see how I could help and, of course, to sign the documents. I didn’t know I’d be appointed president of the company. So how could I know I would need a proper office. As a matter of fact, how could Annie know?!!

As it dawned on me, I shot her a look. It was involuntary. I think my mouth dropped open. Annie glanced at me quickly and looked back at the road and bit her lip. We said nothing. All of a sudden the conversation in the back seat stopped as well. There was an awkward silence until Grace said, “Danko, look at the business you’re doing tonight! The parking lot is full! Annie dear, take a right on Whitfield Street and park behind the gallery.” As we got out of the car and gathered ourselves up and began to walk back to the pub, Annie was avoiding my eyes.

Well, okay. So she knew before I did. And she acted on it. What else would I expect her to do? Why am I angry? Wait, I’m not angry, just surprised, just thrown off by the whole turn of events. There’s nothing actually wrong here…it’s just the shock of it all.

As we walked down the street with the others behind us, I reached over and put my arm around my sister and gave her a walking hug. “I could see furniture, a waiting area there, I guess…in my office…looked very nice,” I said, trying to ease the tension. “Oh, I do hope you like it,” Annie said, sounding relieved. “If you don’t like the color scheme we can exchange it all.” “Oh no, I’m sure it’ll be fine, Annie.” “There’s a display area on the ground floor too,” she went on, “for you to promote your writing as well as the farm. The top floor will be your office. It’s a marvelous space. Great view. You can see the mountains.” She was still selling me, still a bit worried.

“It sounds perfect,” I was trying to reassure her and myself at the same time. “I’ll go in Monday and have a look at the place. Maybe even get started a little.” “Your assistant will be there at 9 a.m.” Annie responded. I blinked. Annie continued, “She’s a temp. I have two interviews set up for you on Monday afternoon with candidates for the permanent job and one more on Tuesday.” I smiled. “Great. Thanks.” Nuff said. Anyway, we’d arrived at the party.

“Here’s the man! Danko!!” shouted one of the patrons at the bar as we entered The Evergreen Pub. There were a few cheers, a smattering of applause and shouts of “Hello Danko!” and “Greetings, Ambassador” and “Welcome home!” I shook some hands and received a few pats on the back and accepted the well-wishes as I worked my way over to a table that had been reserved for us.

But Uncle Manuel was the center of attention, of course. He’s one of the most popular and respected citizens of Strange County. I had passed through the gauntlet of greetings quickly but the crowd would not allow Uncle to do the same. Everyone came closer to say hello or shake his hand or slap his back and engage in a little good-natured ribbing. It seemed the whole town had seen or heard about the old guy climbing up on the farm vehicles over the protests of Annie, Grace and the forewoman. “Manuel,” an older man hollered as he looked out the window, squinting at the parking lot and the street, “where did you park your tractor?” Guffaws all around the pub. “You can’t be pulling your nephew into town on a haywagon, Manuel. The man’s an Ambassador for cryin’ out loud,” said another man, to more raucous laughter. Uncle Manuel laughed along and bantered back and shook the men’s hands and hugged all the ladies. I watched in admiration as he worked the room and brought a smile to each face.

By the time he reached our table, the first round of beers was already in front of us. After we each gave a review of the particular brew before us, Annie and Grace went over to the buffet to get us all some pizza and Uncle Manuel motioned at me to take Grace’s seat.

“Don’t be too hard on your sister,” he said softly. “She’s been a big help to me. I talked to her about the future of the farm over the past few months. Annalee listened. She’s a very good listener. And she gave me her opinion too. She’s not shy, you know?” We both chuckled at that. Manuel went on, “Good head on her shoulders. She’s a smart girl.” “She’s a smart woman, Uncle,” I corrected him.” “Yes,” he agreed, “a smart woman.”

He seemed to have more to say so I sat quietly, waiting, as the noise of the party filled the moment.

He sipped his beer and then almost blurted out, “I don’t want to retire but I realize it’s time. It’s been a lot to handle. And then to figure out the best way for the farm to go on without me.” “Oh Uncle, you’ll still be part of it,” I said, “Just as you asked our advice, we will surely be asking yours.” “Yes,” he said, “I know. But it will just be advice now. I won’t decide anymore. You boys will decide. I’m ready for that. Didn’t think I would be but I am.”

I was glad to hear him say it that way. But before I could comment, Uncle Manuel surprised me again.

“As I say, I will just be offering advice from now on. You and Robbie will have to figure it all out. With help from Levon when you need it but as he won’t be here, it’s up to you and Robbie. And Robbie will be travelling a lot. So it’ll mostly be you. And you won’t always be here. And then what?” Uncle Manuel looked at me as if he was expecting an answer.

He wasn’t. “Well, you will be here, Uncle — ,” I started. He cut me off, “I will only be offering advice.” I didn’t know what to say or what he expected me to say.

The ladies returned with the pizza and Grace took my seat as I had hers. “I’m getting another beer. Danko?” Annie asked. “Yes, thanks!” “I’m good,” Uncle Manuel said. “Me too,” added Grace.

As we watched Annie head for the bar, Uncle Manuel said, “And THAT is the last piece of the puzzle.” Puzzle? I was certainly puzzled. Grace looked puzzled too. “This is just between us three for now,” Manuel said, “and Robbie. He knows. One month after you take over as president, you will announce that Annie is our new vice president.”

The puzzled looks on our faces turned into smiles. It was a big moment in the family. Equal opportunity for women in running the farm was a concept that brought talk but no action from the Whitfield men over the generations. I was looking forward to the day my generation would have the authority to change that. And now, just as we were about to assume that authority, it was the old guard that came through on this issue. It was a moment to remember.

Uncle Manuel made clear this was not a token appointment. He said Annie had the smarts and the drive and those talents should be put to good use. “Robbie is Vice President of Operations. Levon is Vice President of Administration. You’ve got one month, Mr. President, to figure out what Annie can be Vice President of.” “Special Projects,” I said, without missing a beat. “Special Projects!” Uncle Manuel repeated, smiling. Turning to Grace he said, “See, it is worth it to have a writer in the family after all.” We chuckled. Then Grace added, “She’ll be good at that.” “I know, that’s why I said it,” I smiled. “She’s a trouble-shooter, a problem-solver.” Manuel spoke again, “And Danko, I want you to groom her as your successor.” “Firing me already?” I joked. “No, no,” he said, “It’s just I know you weren’t expecting this appointment. And I know how busy you are. If you could just give it say, five years – more if you want – but five years would be good…by that time, Annie will be ready.” “Sounds like a plan,” I said as I lifted my glass to toast the idea. We all sipped our beers, then Uncle Manuel, looking at Annie talking to some customers at the bar, said, “Yup, someday that girl will be the president of Whitfield Farms Corporation.” Grace and I stared at him. “That woman, I mean.” Smiles.

The party continued, the place was packed. Jamie Wright, of  The Pheasant’s Roost Tavern, was “guest bar-tending” for an hour, along with Dave, the regular Saturday night guy, who I’d just met tonight. I didn’t get the whole story but apparently the owner of The Pheasant couldn’t get away so he raffled off the trip among his employees and Jamie had the winning ticket. I had met her a couple of times as she was working the bar at The Pheasant when I visited.

Uncle Manuel stood and clapped his hands and asked everyone for their undivided attention, “All righty, folks. There is a little business to conduct here. Listen up, please.” It took a minute or so for the place to quiet down as the party had been going full-steam.

“My nephew, Danko Whitfield, the Winterfell Ambassador, famous writer, time traveller, and the owner of this drinking establishment –”  (there were cheers for that last credit) “– has an announcement to make but first, I have one of my own…” he continued, “That very same nephew will, in the next few days, add to that list of titles and become the new President of Whitfield Farms Corporation, replacing yours truly.” Someone shouted, “Hear, Hear!!” as the party atmosphere of the gathering turned serious suddenly with everyone applauding the announcement and offering congratulations. Uncle Manuel briefly thanked everyone for their business and friendship over the years and got a big laugh and some cheers when he added, “The rest of it, I’ll save for my retirement party. Danko, you have the floor, I’m going to sit down, shut up and drink.”

I introduced Jamie and made the formal announcement regarding Pheasant’s Ale. As the crowd applauded, Jamie and I toasted each other’s pub. Then I bought a round for the house and the partying resumed.

At one point, I was standing at a table when a fresh tray of beer arrived. I took a stout and began to sip as my sister appeared next to me and selected a red ale. “Welcome home, Danko. Cheers.” We toasted and drank and I leaned over and said quietly, “I thought you were worried about Uncle Manuel, that maybe he wouldn’t give up the farm. Or that I’d feel left out, without much say in the business. But that wasn’t it at all. You were worried about my reaction to being named president.”

Annie nodded. “I know how busy you are,” she said quietly, “and I knew you hadn’t considered anything like this.” “That’s for sure,” I said. “But it’s a good plan,” she continued. “It wasn’t easy for him but he thought it all through. His health, the state of the business, the different talents each of you have. I didn’t expect him to do it this way, splitting up the responsibilities, but it makes a lot of sense. It’s too much for one person nowadays. He’s a very smart man.” I nodded, smiled, sipped my beer. “I’ll need your help too, Annie,” I said. She smiled. “Of course. Anything I can do, just ask.” “I’ll think of something,” I said smiling. Her smile continued but I detected a slightly puzzled look on her face now. It was funny but this was my first piece of business as the head of Whitfield Farms…to try and hire my sister.

“So what are your plans now?” I asked, purposely sounding brotherly rather than business-like though I was asking for both reasons. “No more touring, I hear?” Annie, like everyone in the family, is an accomplished musician and the only one of us who pursued it as a career. She told me she was thinking about settling down and was looking at a couple of teaching positions in the Strange County school system. She was also considering teaching music privately, giving lessons on piano, guitar and flute.

“You men still like all the travel but I’m ready to give that up. I’ve always enjoyed helping people grow their music. And coming back here to live won’t be so bad with you here often and Levon from time to time. As long as I can get news of the outside world, I’ll be all right,” she laughed.

“Well, I must say, this trip has been one surprise after another. My little sister has had enough travel? I never thought I’d hear that one. Maybe when you got older,” I said. “But I am getting older, Danko. I’m not as young as I used to be,” Annie offered. “You’re not old. You’re only 43,” I said with a smile. “40!” she corrected me immediately. It was another round of the family tradition of adding three years to everyone’s age, usually observed on birthdays. “Seriously,” I asked, “is everything all right?” “Oh yes,” she said with great assurance in her voice, “I’m really doing very well, brother. Don’t worry about me.” “Okay,” I said, “I won’t. But Annie, I am quite surprised. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“Well,” she said, smiling in a way that made her look ten years younger, “there is a guy.” “Ohhhhh,” I said in a louder voice than I’d been using, causing a couple of nearby heads to turn, I continued quietly, “Now we’ve come to the real news! Do tell…”  “Not here, not now,” she said quietly. “You’ll meet him soon.” “Oh, you’re introducing him?” I asked with a tone that implied this must be somebody special. “Yes. To you,” Annie said as she placed her forefinger in front of her lips. “Ahhh,” I said, getting the message. “No problem.”

“How’s that red ale?”

 

Visit The Evergreen Pub in Dankoville. The HG address is 67.253.121.199:9000:Dankoville

The Pheasant’s Roost Tavern in Ravenbaile, Ireland is located in the Augurey Peak region on Metropolis grid. The HG address is hypergrid.org:8002:augurey peak

Farm and Home

Annie was waiting on the tiny platform as the train pulled into the depot.

“Whitfield Crossing! WHIT-FIELD CROS-SING!” called the conductor. Just me and two others getting out here, the rest had one more stop to go.

I put down my bags and hugged my sister. “Good trip?” she asked, trying to gauge what kind of mood I was in, the way she does. “Was fine. Annie, I’m here to help.”

“I know.” She was nervous.

It had been three and a half years since I’d been back to the farm. It was just before I came to Winterfell. I stopped in then to help Uncle Manuel with some farm business. Uncle had always consulted his brothers on important matters involving the family farm though he really wasn’t required to do so. He had run the day to day operation since his father died. Since my parents died he had included me, as the oldest, in the discussions about major decisions on the farm.

On that last trip we hired a new foreman – forewoman, actually – to run the farm as Uncle Manuel’s doctor had told him it was time to slow down. But Uncle still ran the business side of it. Now that time was coming to an end as well.

“It tires him out. It’s not good. Too much stress. His doctor says he still has several more good years ahead if he just takes it easy.” I nodded as Annie spoke. “He still gets up on the new tractor about every third week. He keeps up with the technology. He loves that tractor. It’s hard to get mad at him when he’s riding it, he’s having so much fun.” Annie shook her head and laughed.

My cousin Robbie, Manuel’s son, had told me the same things Annie was saying now, so I came here knowing what to expect. What was about to happen was monumental in a family’s history. A farm was about to be transferred from one generation to the next.

Annie drove the red pick-up with the white lettering on the door that said WHITFIELD FARMS. It was a short ride on Route 22 East from the train depot, past the cornfields to Route 7 South to the old green and white farmhouse.

As we walked up to the door, Grace appeared. “Welcome home, Ambassador.” “Thank you, Grace. Nice to finally meet you.” We hugged. My Uncle had been widowed for some years and since my last visit, Grace had come into his life. She was younger by about fifteen years. She owns a farm supply store with her sister and lives nearby. Annie’s letters speak highly of her.

Quietly I asked Grace, “How’s he doing?” nodding toward the living room where I expected Uncle Manuel to be waiting.

“Oh, you know Manny,” she said smiling. I smiled too as no one calls him that. No one. I looked at Annie and she was smiling at my reaction. Grace continued, “He is all-business when it’s about the farm but he is his usual pleasant and helpful self otherwise. You’d never know about the pain. But at the end of the day when he takes his shoes off and loosens his tie, he is completely exhausted. He is too tired for any fun. He really needs to have some good fun.”

There was an awkward pause and then Annie started giggling. I smiled. Grace turned slightly red. “Oh! You know what I mean! He needs to get out of the house. Go places. Do something that’s not about business. Fun things.” She looked at us and smiled. “Oh, you two.” We all chuckled.

“Welcome home, nephew!” The baritone voice was thinner than when last I heard it but as warm as ever. A handshake then a hug and in a few moments we are sitting in the big old red chairs around the fireplace as cigars are lit and coffee is poured and Uncle Manuel is leading a lively conversation. We hopscotch from one topic to another: my trip, the train depot, corn prices, the weather, Grace’s apricot pie, the new tractor, and a local political scandal.

Now it was time to talk about business. Farm business. The ladies excused themselves. I poured more coffee for the two of us as Uncle Manuel shared his thinking on the future operation of Whitfield Farms. His son, Robertson, would handle the agricultural decision-making and planning while my brother Levon would be responsible for the business end of things. I would take care of marketing and act as spokesman. “Robbie knows farming and the farm business, Levon knows how to run a business, and you are a leader,” Uncle Manuel said, “so you will replace me as president of the corporation.”

Okay, remember earlier when I said I knew what to expect? Scratch that.

I figured Robbie would become president and run whole the operation. I knew Levon and I would be asked to handle some duties within our areas of interest but I never thought…

This is one of those matters that doesn’t involve much discussion or negotiation. This is the family business and if you are asked to take on a role, you accept it. So I did, of course. But first I asked how Robbie felt about all this as I was concerned I was stepping on my cousins’ toes. Uncle Manuel explained that the international and inter-century nature of Whitfield Farms’ business requires Robertson to travel to other time periods often. He can’t be here enough to do the things the head of a company needs to do. When he is here, he’ll be busy working on our ag issues and strategy, not public relations. Made sense.

So I will be needed here. Often. Uncle Manuel knows Winterfell is my home and that I have responsibilities there and elsewhere but he’s asking me to make a second home here.

There will be an awful lot to juggle. Winterfell and Devokan and my writing and gridhopping and now the farm….but I will have to make the time.

It’s going to take some getting used to, being here on the farm again, going into town, learning what’s changed around the area. I’ll bet there have been an awful lot of changes.

I haven’t lived here for nearly a hundred-fifty years.

Calm Before The Storm? What Calm?

In the sitting room of the Storytellers Pub, my bar in Winterfell Laudanum. Just around the corner from where it all started for me in The Steamlands community in Second Life.

So much going on for me right now and I’m loving it.

My little publishing empire has been reorganized – a necessity I had put off for some time as I was too busy writing –  and now I am back to the writing.

I’m putting the finishing touches on a project for the benefit of explorers of the Metaverse and should have an announcement shortly.

I’ve made some new friends via a couple of 21st century roundtables, known then as discussion groups or “social networks.”

I have a new lady friend I have much enjoyed spending time with. We were introduced by a mutual friend who thought we would “fit.” It was the first time she had ever played matchmaker. How did she know?

And there have been several recent offers from people whom I don’t know well to get involved deeply in their projects. This has been both unexpected and most flattering. It makes one wonder exactly what he has done to inspire them to ask. I almost asked one of them but then decided it might not be something I want to know. What if the answer came back, “Oh, we asked so-and-so but he was too busy, so we’re asking you.”

I have decided to accept one of these offers and am about to embark on a new journey which recalls a past life. Therefore, it is appealing on several levels. I am still learning about the project but it has the feel of a return to the second-half of the 20th century which is funny because I am already working on some personal projects in that same time period.

This new project will complement rather than hinder my ongoing activities in Winterfell, with Devokan and with my writing and exploring.

Things are falling together nicely.

Semi-Retired Time Traveller

That’s what it says on my business card. At the bottom. Below the current stuff. I’m talking about the personal business card, not the official one. The official one just has the one title: Winterfell Ambassador. When you’re an ambassador, you don’t put other titles on your business card.

But the personal card kind of mentions it…

Writer, Explorer, Diplomat, Musician, Pub Owner

Semi-retired Time Traveller

I put Diplomat in there because it does raise eyebrows. As does Explorer. Writer, eh. A lot of people call themselves Writer. Diplomat and Explorer kind of offset the roll of eyes over Musician. And, Pub Owner, well who doesn’t like a Pub Owner?

That top line is fine, I’m not changing that one at all. It’s the bottom one I’ve been thinking about a lot. For a few months now. The Time Traveller part is fine, that’s still true. And yes, I use the British spelling. I just do. I think of it as the Victorian spelling.

It’s the Semi-retired that I’m losing sleep over. That may be an overstatement. But if you’ve been following along with the stops and starts of this journal, you may have wondered about it yourself. I seem to spend more time moving between centuries and worlds than I have in years.

Back when I made my living at time travel, I had a rather unusual schedule. At times it was rigorous, at others it slowed to a crawl. It was basically a free-lance business, working for a client until the job was done and billing accordingly, although some clients had me on retainer. The latter, by the way, was the only way I would do government jobs. Money upfront when you’re dealing with those rascals. Good luck, completing an assignment and trying to get paid otherwise. If they’re not paying you regularly, they’re not paying you at all. Damn bureaucracy.

It was the nature of the business though to have a ton of work for awhile and then have little to do for weeks at a time. Months even. That’s when I’d write a guest column for a newspaper or magazine and give a lecture or two. (Of course, I could usually pick up some cash on the side in another line of work, playing music.)  It was in those days, when I was in between missions, that I would joke with my friends about being semi-retired.

Later, when I did leave the trade to allow myself to find a time to settle down in, I thought it would bring a laugh if I put semi-retired on the business card. And I knew it would keep me in the loop if a particular timejump assignment came up that caught my interest. I remain a member of the Guild and I’ll go into the club from time to time, so I’ll hear about jobs. If I’m interested, I pull out the business card so an appointment can be arranged. If not, I just listen and act ambassadorial.

But over the past many months, as you’ve seen, I’m here, there and almost anywhere. There are so many more worlds to travel to these days. And with this hypergrid movement now, well by God even amateurs are doing it! So it can come in handy to have the resume and bona fides of a professional. There is tall money to be made for short work, if you have the experience. Plus, I am doing so much time travel for my own personal business reasons now that I’m just not as semi-retired as I used to be.

So, maybe I should strike that phrase from the title and the business card. Whenever I think about that, it causes me to wonder if I should change the name of this journal as well. As much as I am still a man of the 19th century, I just don’t get to spend as much time there as before. And so far, every time I think about changing the name of my journal, I stop thinking about all of it. It’s just too difficult to decide. If I did decide to do it, then I’d have to think of a new name. There’s just too much thinking involved all the way ’round. Maybe it’s better to do nothing.

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Aurorascape Memories

Seven months ago, I gave up my homestead, Winterfell Evergreen, and headed to a little cabin in the north woods of Winterfell to devote my time to writing. I expected it to be a quiet time for me. Writing, thinking, chilling. There has been a lot of writing, much more than I ever expected. Too much, possibly. So there was a lot of thinking too. All of that writing and thinking has left little time for chilling. But it sure has been interesting and fun. A lot of things have happened in that time which I wanted to tell you about but there just wasn’t time to stop and write them down. I did get to mention a few of them here or there but all that did was to leave some loose ends out there that I haven’t had time to tie together. I’ll never get to them all as my list of things I want to write about has exploded beyond my control. Somehow I found the time today to check one off my list…

In February, I posted a piece here called Another World. It told of a new second home I’d found in the 21st century in a world that was only a couple weeks old. A world called Aurorascape. I wrote that I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with a free parcel I acquired there in a nice lakeside neighborhood.

What I decided on was to put a pub on the land. As the world was new, I thought a gathering place would be a good contribution to the community. I built a new version of The Evergreen Pub as, at about that same time, I was closing The Evergreen on the Mainland of Second Life.

As I have noted on these pages before, I am not a builder. Yes I know how to put prims together neatly – and I can do a good job modding someone else’s build – but I have no eye for design. But looking for a pre-fab build for a pub in OpenSim and Aurora-Sim worlds would have been a big waste of my time. I have visited enough OpenSim worlds to know this. Heck, the pickings for pre-fab pubs or bars in Second Life are slim. I know that well after nearly six years in that world. I thought about asking the builder who did the custom job on the original Evergreen Pub if I could get a copy I could export elsewhere – and I may yet ask at some point – but tracking her down and going through the process was going to take time. And I wanted a pub now! So I would have to build one.

I decided to keep it simple. A small corner bar of the type that you might find tucked into a tiny commercial area of a mostly residential district. The classic “neighborhood bar.” I put my build together and furnished it and announced it’s opening. It only took up about a quarter of the parcel. I scattered some trees and plants around the rest of it with the thought that I would leave it that way until inspiration struck with the answer to what else to do with this spot.

The important thing was that I now had a base in this world. A place to watch the world grow and a place that might draw the occasional visitor from among the other early pioneers here. A place for me to hangout when I was inworld and to maybe make a friend or two. It was exactly what I needed.

Although my pub building was simple, I was happy with it. It was a good enough build and I had created a nice atmosphere with the furniture and wall-hangings inside that, for once, I was not embarrassed to say it was mine. But I had no idea how it would turn out, so I didn’t build it at ground-level. I didn’t want anyone to see it until it was done.

I built the pub on a building platform I had placed high in the sky. And once the pub was open, I started to build other things on that platform. For, at the same time I was putting down prims in Aurorascape, I had begun another project on another world, Kitely, where I already had a presence hosting and caring for a few of the Devokan ages. It is a very large project but the cost in Kitely was minimal. And I found a way to do it for even less than advertised. I thought my new pub would fit nicely in that project so I learned how to export it from Aurorascape to Kitely. Then I investigated a 21st century tool I’d heard tell about called Sim-on-a-Stick (SoaS). I didn’t think it was something that would work for me as I’m not knowledgeable about the technology of the 21st century. But it turned out to be so simple. And it didn’t cost a cent. I realized I could build my big project at no cost offline on SoaS and then upload it to Kitely when it was ready. This led to further ideas about additional projects. And I started work on those (on SoaS) as well. And that led to a complete re-think of how I would plan, build and display my projects in the future. And all this was happening at a time that a fellow member of the Devokan Storytellers group, Ruby O’Degee, had been talking and writing about a craft she had taken to calling “Storybuilding.” And I realized not only had I engaged in storybuilding before but that I was now at a place and time – and equipped with the tools and ideas – to jump into storybuilding with both feet. So I jumped.

You could find me every day and every night working on one of my projects in SoaS. Well, actually you couldn’t find me. That was one of the cool things about SoaS. I could do all this work out of the view of others. Storybuilding is quite like story-writing. At least for me it is. When I am writing a story, I don’t want someone looking over my shoulder. Same with storybuilding.

I was now so busy that I began to wonder whether I really needed my free space in Aurorascape anymore. But I only could begin to wonder as I was much too busy to engage in a full-fledged wondering. I had several ongoing writing projects. Some I would work on in the first world but others I would pursue at my cabin in Winterfell in Second Life. That was also my getaway when I needed to stop myself from writing more or had to take a timeout from my new storybuilding projects in SoaS. I also had been reappointed Winterfell Ambassador and there were duties to carry out. And I’d become extensively involved in exploring other virtual worlds around the Metaverse. Plus, I had the Devokan ages of Evergreen in Kitely to watch over and the Devokan Storytellers’ gatherings on Kitely to organize and attend. So with all of this, when would I have time to spend in my pub in Aurorascape?

But I didn’t want to leave. It was a new world and it was growing rapidly and I wanted to watch that happen, who knows where it would lead?

But then came the sad news. As quickly as Aurorascape was growing and as fast as word of it was getting around and causing others to come in for a looksee, there were unexpected outside issues that its creator, Timothy, believed would prevent this new world from developing as it should and could. So he announced that the world would close. Unlike some ventures where you just show up one day and the world and all your projects and belongings are gone, Timothy gave us all a heads up and the time we needed to wrap things up and pack them and take them to other worlds.

In the short time – a few weeks – that Aurorascape was around, it had a big and positive impact on me and some others I met there. And together with the things I was learning elsewhere at the same time, it changed my virtual life forever. It was also a blessing as my typist was going through a rough patch with his health throughout this period. All of these happenings in the virtual worlds gave him something to focus on and made his daily life bearable.

But because of Aurorascape and where it helped lead me in my virtual life, it was a time I will never forget and will always look back on fondly. It really is a new chapter, maybe a whole new book, certainly another new beginning. It gave me a new outlook, a new approach, and many new projects that will keep me happy and busy for a very long time.

Last day in Aurorascape. Standing on my parcel after removing the pub.

Ambassador Whitfield, Chapter Two

Meet the new Ambassador. Same as the old Ambassador.

I am once again honored to be appointed by Lady Twilight to the post of Winterfell Ambassador. It was my favorite job in all my time in this world and I am lucky to be in a position to be able to return to it. And lucky that the Seneschelf would have me again.

I left the post last fall as a number of things were going on in my life in this world and in the other world that prevented me from being able to fully serve the Realm. It would have been a disservice to continue on at that time and I could not do that to my beloved Winterfell. I did not like walking away from the role but I had to walk away from many things at that moment. I relinquished my title as Duke of Evergreen as well. Some things can not be put back together nor would they fit with the new if they could.

But my life has changed quite a bit in these last four months and the changes keep on coming. It’s all good, as they say. Fortunately, the changes have now led me back to a role I cherish.

I have done a bit of diplomatic work in the past three weeks since my appointment but unfortunately an ailment has slowed me down. I look forward to resuming my full schedule shortly.