The Memoir, continued

I left the town I had grown up in on the Great Valley train. Mr Sandhurst gave me instructions, tickets, and some pocket money for meals for the trip. I had never traveled on the train and I saw all sorts of people on board. There were some like my mother and father -- somewhat poor and worn with having to struggle to live -- but there were more like the men who traveled with Mr Sandhurst. Their clothes were immaculate and their auras murmuring of power. They could see I was poor and would pass me like I was a clod of dirt on the ground. But it didn't matter to me. I was more fascinated by the places we were passing and the things I saw.

The most fascinating thing though to me was the engine. When we stopped at a station where we would be sitting for a while, I was curious to see the engine. I could sense the power that ran the train for it flowed the whole length of it. But when I got close to the engine, its power nearly knocked me over. It took all I had to approach it.

"Beauty, ain't she?" said a man to me.

I looked over and saw a man in a stained coverall with a patch bearing the railroad's emblem over his heart. He looked as old as my father, his short stringy hair streaked with gray. He was wiping his hands of grease. I looked back at the engine. It gleamed with the polish of hours of care enhanced with the power it could generate. I wanted to touch it but didn't dare.

"She's a Carmichael 32-H400," said the man. "Weren't many of these built. Shame, really. It was the best engine Carmichael made."

"How fast can she go?" I asked.

"Under full steam she can fly as fast as the River Runner if not faster."

I had heard of the River Runner. It was the express train that crossed the country in a day. At top speed it could do 185. I stared in awe.

"Yep. Great machine." His ears perked and he walked away.

My final destination was to be the town of Clearwater but in order to get there we had to pass through the largest city of the country: Ashkaroth. It was called the City of Lights and that evening as the train curved around the great bay it rested by one could see why. The buildings were ablaze in magnificent colors and shimmering rays of luminescence. I stared at it until I couldn't see it for the train's bulk in the way. The few buildings we passed soon multiplied in number until we were flying down a canyon of structures. The train dove into a tunnel to get to the station where we stopped for an hour.

By the time we reached Clearwater, it was late and I was tired from the long ride. I fetched my trunk but when I left the station I wasn't sure how I was to get to my next destination. I looked at the directions Mr Sandhurst had given me. When you reach Clearwater, send the enclosed message ball to Mr Arrhenius Pond. Then wait.

In the office of the shop, Mr Sandhurst had given me an envelope that had all the things I needed for my journey. I pulled it out of my jacket pocket and rifled through it. My fingers fell upon a hard round object and pulled it out: a message ball. Inside the gumball-sized plain container would be a paper that bore the message. I tucked the envelope back in my jacket, then I rubbed the ball between my hands and breathed on it. "Go to Mr Arrhenius Pond," I commanded, then I threw it up in the air. The ball fell a foot, then flew upward quickly out of the light of the lamps.

It was all a matter of waiting then. I put my trunk so that I could sit on it but had no idea how long it would take for something or someone to appear. Mr Sandhurst had been vague about where I was to be going. The Clearwater station emptied and with the train and people gone the place was lonely and growing cold. There was nothing to do but play with the light a little and wait.

It seemed after a while that I was pretty much left there to spend the night when I heard a rushing from a distance. A wind gust threw my hair all over and cast dust everywhere, making me cough. "Sorry," I heard a youngish voice say some feet away. "Still trying to get a handle of this one."

I wiped my face and looked at the speaker. It was a fellow my age dressed in a green brocade jacket and purple trousers getting up from a Turkish carpet that hovered a foot from the ground. His chestnut brown curly hair was a terrible mess but his eyes had a gleam of fun. "Are you Arrhenius Pond?"

"Me?" said the fellow. "Oh, no, I'm not old Pond. I'm John. Pondy sent me to fetch you. Hand with your trunk?"

"Um, sure." I lifted one end and John picked up the other. Together we placed it on the carpet, causing it to dip a little then even out. I climbed aboard the carpet and sat with my back to the trunk.

"Old Pond's the housemaster," said John, settling in next to me and gripping the carpet's tufts. I did the same as the carpet suddenly rose into the air and flew over the treetops. "He'd rather be in bed at this time of night. But he was expecting you and had me out when the ball arrived."

"Where are we going?"

"Seven Oaks Academy. On the outside looks like a stodgy old place where they send peers and such to study all sorts of awful things."

"What is it then?"

"You don't know?"

"No."

John grinned. "It's only the best school for engineers. You can't get into it without invitation. Who sent you? Mr Sandhurst?"

"Yes," I said.

"You must be good then. The best ones have been the ones Mr Sandhurst sends."

We went over a rise and in the light of lamps set along paths stood a group of stone and plaster buildings. It looked intimidating and I shrank a little, wondering if I would be able to pass muster. I glanced at John, who was blithely grinning as he steered the carpet to the lawn near a set of arched wood doors on one of the side buildings. I clambered off the carpet and ran my hands through my windblown hair as I looked up at the place. "Go on in," said John. "I'll take care of your trunk."

I opened a door and stepped into an arched hall of polished wood and worn carpets. I walked further, seeing paintings of men and women in various robes and gowns. I heard John bring in my trunk then say, "Good evening, Mr Pond."

I turned and saw an old man in a plain shirt and trousers stepping up to me. "Edmund Snitterton?" he said in a voice that reminded me of my father when he was annoyed at me.

"Yes, sir," I replied nervously.

He smiled warmly. "Welcome to Seven Oaks, Mr Snitterton. Your new life begins now."

The Memoir, continued

When I went to the office, Mr Sandhurst told me he had intentions for me. He needed people to train for a project, one that would be even more incredible than any he had already devised. If I was studious and persistent, I would be greatly rewarded. He would have me schooled in the skills I needed to do the job.

I thought about it. I had never heard of anyone doing such a thing for just a worker. But the look on the foreman's face told me that this opportunity was even more of an amazing thing and I would be very foolish to turn it down. I thought of my mother and father and my siblings. What would my absence mean to the rest of the family? I asked Mr Sandhurst and he assured me they would be taken care of. I would have to leave them though so if I decided to go, I would have to go home and pack and leave right away. He would not have any relatives get in the way of who he wanted on this project.

I said yes.

The Memoir

I have a blank page before me and don't know how to begin. I know I need to tell someone about some of the things that happened but I have to be reasonably careful, because I don't want others to get hurt. The people who have taken me in have been very kind, but I dare not tell them anything of what happened. Fortunately they have accepted my story as an actor who is down on his luck. I've also been helping around the house at repairing things and earning my keep, so they're not likely to notice anything.

For starters, I'm in my late thirties. I grew up in a household where you fixed things and made do with what you had. My father was quite adroit at mechanical objects so while we didn't have much he made it work so that my mother didn't have to work so hard.

Of the four of us siblings I took to doing things like my father did very readily, so often he had me as his assistant. Later, when I was old enough, he had me at the shop he worked at. The other mechanics weren't sure of having a kid hanging around where there was heavy machinery that could easily take off an arm or leg. But I proved to be sensible and alert, not prone to fooling around. I knew that when I had my cap and work overall on that I was to be serious and pay attention because one never knew for certain what Dad needed. Soon the other mechanics grew fond of my being there and I was soon running errands and helping them out when they needed an extra hand.

You probably wonder why a kid like me was allowed in such a place. At the time, it wasn't unusual for a kid or two to be there. They did the grunt work: fetching coffee or rags; carrying parts; holding tools ready for mechanics. But it was tough to be there. The shop was hot in the summer and cold in the winter. Grease and dirt was everywhere and the place stank of old oil, sweat, and metal shavings. When I showed up there was a kid there who was nearly apprentice age that later on was thrown out because he had been caught stealing cast off metal to sell at the scrap yard. It was awful to see him being dragged out, beaten, then left out on the street to make his way. I never knew what happened to him, but I suspected that he found his way somewhere else to steal, because times were hard and we knew he had no family.

I worked at the shop diligently though the work was hard. I was earning a few extra kuleks for the family, which meant that we could have better food. When I was made an apprentice, we celebrated with a feast of roast chicken, potatoes, greens, and fresh milk. Milk! It was so good. I saved some to go with the dessert I had chosen: apple pie. It was a rare meal for us. I remember my brother and sisters wolfing theirs down and my mother being so proud of me.

My years as apprentice were not long. The shop foreman saw how well I did and how quickly I learned. When there was a call for a new job, he made sure I was with the crew. I did not always work beside my father, but he was proud of how well I did because he knew that I could go further than he. One night on the walk home he said, "Son, someday you will find your ship and it will take you to your dreams. Stay true to what you have learned from your mother and me, trust your heart, and you will go far."

I had little idea of where it would take me. One day the owner, Rupert H. D. Sandhurst, came through the shop. We had no idea he was coming. He was well known to the world as a man of adventure but very shrewd. When he spoke to others his ideas, often they would respond that they were impossible. But he would make them possible and it made him very rich. Our shop was but one of many he owned, but he felt it was important to meet the people who worked for him. "It is easy to lose sight of the world," he once said, "when you don't walk beyond the halls of your office." Mr Sandhurst walked through the shop and all work came to a standstill until he said, "Don't stop on account of me." "Get back at it!" shouted the foreman, and we bent to our jobs.

While I worked at grinding a part, Mr Sandhurst and the foreman came by. It made me nervous having him there and I fumbled the piece a little. "It's okay, boy," said Mr Sandhurst. "Don't mind my watching. I want to see how you do it."

"Sorry," I murmured, noticing the foreman looking anxious.

"If you like, sir," said the foreman, "there's a fella who can show ya how it's done."

"No," said Mr Sandhurst. "I've heard of this one. I want to see his work."

I gulped and nodded a little, turning back to grind the piece. It was a gear for the mainshaft of the ship we were building and my job was to clean up the piece before it went to the next man. It didn't take long when I forgot that Mr Sandhurst and the foreman were there. I took off the rough edges and polished the surface to the right consistency. I was about to pick up the next piece when the clean hand of Mr Sandhurst stopped me. I looked at him.

"You're Edmund Snitterton," asked Mr Sandhurst.

"Yes, sir," I said.

"Um hmm. How old are you, Snitterton?"

"Seventeen next Rose Day, sir."

"How long have you been prenticed here?"

I tried to think but the foreman blurted out the answer before I could speak. "Two and a half years, Mr Sandhurst."

"Really?" Mr Sandhurst smiled. "You started quite early, Snitterton. Remarkable."

"He's been quite the hand, sir," said the foreman. "You can thank his dad for that."

"Really? And who is his dad? Does he work here?"

"Yes, sir," said the foreman. "Roger Snitterton's his name."

Mr Sandhurst looked thoughful, then he shook my hand. "We will be talking soon, Snitterton. I have a few things I must take care of first. Borling, where is this other Snitterton?"

I watched as Mr Sandhurst and the foreman went to talk with my father. I had no idea what to think. What did Mr Sandhurst want with me? As I watched them talk, my father's grease-smudged face went from wary to pride to surprise. He looked at me then back at Mr Sandhurst, then he slowly nodded. When Mr Sandhurst and the foreman walked away, my father didn't look up at me. One of the mechanics went up to him, but he said nothing.

"Snitterton!" shouted the foreman. "Clean up and come to the office."

The box

During some cleaning I was doing in the attic I came across a small wooden box. It didn't look familiar so I pulled it out. A simple hook held it closed so I opened it. Inside was a sheaf of papers covered in writing. Further investigation revealed them to be the remnants of a memoir someone had intended on writing but never finished. The papers were fairly old, maybe from the sixties, but the tone of the writing made me think that the writer was well educated and somewhat well-to-do. I made some inquiries but nothing turned up any indication as to who the writer was. I can only speculate on the identity being a relative that had stayed at the house for some time but suddenly became too ill to continue the memoir.

FO!

I'm involved in a project with several of the PDX Knitbloggers where we all knit the Haruni shawl out of StitchJones Titanium Sock yarn. I finished mine last night and released it from its blocking wires and pins.

This could easily be set up to be a square tablecloth. I can see this done up in white yarn and draped over the tea table for afternoon tea.

November

The sentinels of the street have been touched by the coming chill

They dress in yellow, in gold, in copper

Never the same dress as the year before.

They wait, knowing as in years past, that soon the time to sleep will come.

The day has given them a chance to show their glory in the light of the afternoon sun.

In a brief moment, they flash themselves in a symphony of radiance.

The young, bearing only a few shreds of fabric, vie for

attention but are swallowed by the giants in their vast ensembles.

The wind pulls at the hems. Patches open and seams burst.

Soon the colors will fade, their memory burned only in the eyes of those who saw them.

All drop their raiment, building a carpet of fringe and sequins and embellishments tarnished by rain.

A walk under the skirts shuffles the tufts and shreds along the pavement.

The pageant comes to a close.

Rhinebeck Day 2

(warning: heavy photo content) Sunday I didn't set an alarm to go off so I slept in. Considering how tired I was the previous night it was good to get the rest. As it was I was up by 9 am and on my way back to the Dutchess County fairgrounds. I expected to be parking some ways from the entrance, but Asphalta, the goddess of parking, was very generous and gave me a place right next to the path that led to the entrance. The day before I had had a good spot but finding my vehicle when I was done was awful. Thank goodness for the horn button on the remote, else I would have been there for over an hour looking for it.

My focus on Sunday was taking pictures. I had no obligations so I was free to wander about and see what people had to offer. There were fewer people so it was much easier to see things and get around. Breakfast was one of the yummy chicken pot pies and coffee at the 4H booth. The wind wasn't as fierce as the day before but while I ate I still needed to wear my shawl. And there was plenty of people to watch walk by in their knits.

My first stop was at the farm implement museum. In a fenced off section stood a number of steam powered machines all fired up and running. There was a conveyor belt, a couple of water pumps, a planing saw, and a finishing saw. One man was taking logs of wood and running them through the planer then finishing off the edges to make planks. I was able to take one as a souvenir for Rod aka ToolMan to see if he could make some shawl pins out of it. The place was noisy with popping, farting, and hissing as the machines chugged away.

I worked my way through several buildings, fondling fiber, asking questions, and observing. I found a vendor who was selling custom made wheels using a Majacraft-type flyer. I found another vendor who was needlefelting fiber inside a cookie cutter. The range of colors available of fiber was dazzling. I snagged business cards from those vendors and others I wanted to follow up with later when I was more flush with cash and because the crowds were smaller I was able to talk with vendors about their products.

I made a stop at the livestock arena to see the sheep that were waiting their turn at the judging. Another building had been set aside to display different breeds of sheep. I took photos of the different breeds and most I can identify now but foolish me didn't take notes. There were certainly more breeds than I've seen here in the NW but there were also a few missing. Considering how many breeds of sheep there are there's a limit in how many you can show. The breed of the show was the Oxford, a breed I'm not familiar with, and the sheep there were quite nice.

After all the wandering around I decided to take a break. I found a bench set at a crossing of several paths and sat down to spin for a while on my new handspindle, the music of the Peruvian band wafting from nearby. It was a great fit for the fiber I had brought to play with, so I was churning out my single without any effort at all. Occasionally someone would slow down to watch and little kids were fascinated. A few people came up to me and asked me questions about spinning which I did my best to answer. The most interesting person was a woman who came to me and had me feel some white fiber in a baggie. It turned out to be Samoyed fur. I can see why people would spin it – it's so soft and has no smell at all.

I ended my day with a nice dinner and an early bedtime. The following day I wasn't going to leave until late in the afternoon, giving me time to visit my friend Sadelle and drive through the countryside to enjoy the fall colors. It was an exhausting but very enjoyable weekend. Would I go back? Not likely what with the crowds. If I do I'd most likely visit one of the other fiber festivals in the area and focus on meeting up with my friends. But Rhinebeck is still an experience I'll remember and say, "Yep, I've done it."

An exercise in interesting persistence

There's an event that occurs during November called National Novel Writing Month aka NaNoWriMo. The goal of the endeavor is to write a 50,000 word novel in a month's time. Last year I thought about it but when the month came I was still too caught up in the details of my story to be able to begin it, so I quit. This year I'm not doing it but will try my hand at a similar exercise called National Blog Posting Month (NaBloPoMo). The goal is to write a blog post every day, which is easy. Writing a blog post every day and have the blog remain interesting is more difficult. So how does one try to do this?

Planning. Like any writing exercise, planning is vital to the success of the exercise. Like taking a trip you are making for the first time, you need to have some sort of map available to make sure you don't make a wrong turn somewhere or end up at a dead end. With blog writing, the tendency is for some folks to compose a diary of daily routines which for blog reading gets to be quite dull rather quickly. I want to push myself to 1) come up with an interesting set of subjects, 2) add variety to the postings (serious one day, silly another, interesting a third, etc.), and 3) explore deeper into areas that are part of my life.

I know I'm behind in my blog posting about Rhinebeck (I still have Day 2 to post) and that will be done soon. There will be days when my schedule dictates that I put in a short entry. I will have a picture day and a day of randomness. Sunday will still be my weekly roundup day. I will have some postings of my own musings on various subjects--nothing horribly controversial. I only hope that by the end of the month I will still have interesting things to say and share.

A blog is a personal thing. It's a public platform for a writer to share information. When you post something you take the risk of getting a response that you may not like. For some people that's not a risk they like to take and after a while the blog becomes staid or not updated for periods of time. But a blog doesn't have to arouse debate to be interesting. Fresh ideas and experiences lead readers to areas they were not aware of. A blog can be a window to a person's spirit but it can also be an ego-stroking device if carried too far. It's the challenge I have, and I hope I succeed in keeping it from being that.