“To prefer evil to good is not in human nature; and when a man is compelled to choose one of two evils, no one will choose the greater when he might have the less.”
---Plato
True to his promise, on the third morning the stranger was again sitting on his porch when he came out of the house that morning. “Here's your coffee.” The host proffered a cup to his guest. After a moment or two, the host steeled his resolve to admit, “I was a miserable failure at those 'simple' experiments!”
The older man didn't smile, didn't react at all other than to ask, “How do you mean, 'failure'?”
“At first when I tried to keep my shoulders back for example, I'd no sooner think of something else and when next I remembered about them, they had long since drooped. I told myself I wasn't really trying and so I tried not to think of anything else and then they stayed---But only as long as I continued to ignore any distractions, which was never very long. Either something would catch my eye or a thought would carry me to another stream of thoughts and I was lost again. Then with that 'not say 'I' thing,' I asked a friend who was over for a visit, to tell me if I used the word 'I.' He didn't mind, but before I'd even finished getting him something to drink he'd spotted 'I' several times and I swear I thought I was watching myself carefully! And forget that spinning hands thing. I can't move my hands with my thought, watching and guiding every movement any faster than at a snail's pace. Spiders could build webs on me and not notice I'd moved.” The young man slumped back into his seat, convinced that he was in fact not a candidate for anything that had to do with man's potential being fulfilled; not if it depended upon him.
The older man then allowed himself a look of sympathy for his host. “I applaud your genuine sincerity with yourself and your endeavors. Was there no improvement at all in two and half days?”
“Well sure. I can now hold my shoulders back for a whole minute and a half on average. Whoopie. Oh, and I was able to not say 'I' when talking to my cat for maybe three minutes... Of course the cat didn't stop me if I goofed.”
“Anything we practice we will improve upon with time,” encouraged the guest.
The host then had to ask, “I know I'm pretty dense, and I realize you've probably explained this, but I couldn't hear it. What was the point of those experiments? Besides to get me to see that I am not the wunderkind I would like to believe I am.”
“You said, the other day, that 'you have a little difficulty thinking of your body as a machine...' Well, is it?”
“I don't know about programmed obsolescence or anything, but I definitely have buttons that can be pushed, and I just go... off somewhere. If that is the activity of a machine, I'm the poster child,” acknowledged the host.
“That is a start. We have difficulty dissuading ourselves from the habit of thinking we are 'one;' so to not acknowledge our presumed 'unity' by avoiding saying 'I' is tantamount to denying our existence. We are legion, and our only shield against that reality is our illusion of wholeness. If you go to bed one night and think, 'In the morning, I must do thus and such, it is very important.' And the next morning, you go about your routine without a thought to that 'important' thing you were convinced of the night before... What has happened? Simply that it may have been important to one 'I,' but another 'I' was there when you woke up---an 'I' with its own memories and important matters, different from all the other 'I's in our machine. And they exchange places, without order, at a moment's notice, constantly, all our waking days.
That is one reason why keeping your shoulders back was so difficult. Our moving center is supposed to deal with our physical world in response to the sensory perceptions of our instinctive center: to move or stay still. Unfortunately, our centers and the 'I's that comprise them have co-opted each others jobs. Our moving center thinks when it should simply move, our intellectual center tries to control movements when it should think and plan, our instinctive center feels when it should simply sense. How else could a 'thought,' a function proper to the intellectual center, intrude upon a moving center task? And then there is the fact that the intellectual center moves at a much slower rate of process than the moving center. You discovered that by revolving your hands. Obviously your hands could spin around themselves almost faster than the eye can follow without hitting each other and even to a tempo or rhythm, but not if managed by a center which cannot currently process at that speed.
We are built of several centers or brains, each with a capacity and function for which purposes it alone should be utilized. Yet the state of man, 'like unto a kingdom suffering an insurrection' is so mis-wired, so scrambled in its service of our wishes, that we are not able to genuinely 'do' anything.”
The host had nodded to parts of the explanation, some of it making great sense in light of his own experiments. “How then, if I am a microcosm of the great world, and I am not functioning as I am supposed to function... Is there truly some practicable way to enable me to become as a human was intended?”
“Yes,” answered the old man without reservation.
He then took up the story again. “The long train trip from where they boarded in Truckee all the way to their terminus in New York harbor was to take twelve days since Mr. Allcock had business to attend to along the way and their delay at those junctions was unavoidable. Still, Harry had only ridden a train once before and that was seated for the trip to San Francisco as a third-class passenger. Mr. Allcock spared no expense to book their passage on the 'Overland' in a first-class state room; that and he would now be traveling further than he'd ever been. This was an adventure.
The Union Pacific Railroad, on the Overland Route, began for Harry at three in the morning on Tuesday, the seventeenth of June, 1884. His father, mother, and sisters escorted him to the depot in Truckee, where he and Mr. Allcock were to board the 4:50AM eastbound train. He looked the part of a young traveler in his new charcoal-black sack suit, black boots and dark slouch hat. He fiddled nervously with the watch and fob with its attendant key in his vest pocket while he waited on the platform with the few other travelers. The watch was a birthday present from White Feathers. Inscribed inside the cover was:
To the young Master,
Henry Livingson,
Time is the Uniquely
Subjective Phenomenon.
your Great-great-uncle,
White Feathers, J.B.C
His trunk waited on the trolley with Mr. Allcock's luggage (far fewer in number than on his last visit). His sisters held onto each of his arms and barely kept back their tears as the steam whistle of the train pierced the cold Sierra morning on its approach to the little station.
Titania and Hipolyta were dressed up for the send off, they had insisted that since he wore nice new clothes, they definitely would be wearing their best dresses. The way Belle saw it, this would be the last time he would see them for at least four years, maybe more, and she wanted him to leave with the memory of his sisters as young women, not the tall skinny girls they still were. In this endeavor she was assisted by the girls' Aunts and, truth be told, primarily by her Great-grandmama who had related a story to her that impelled her to have everything ready for her daughters' transformation. The tale was:
'Long before all the tribes of the great plains came under the sway of the first great chief, far away in an open field beyond the distant mountains, two groups of young men from 'the people' armed themselves with spears, sticks, and bows and excited each other to the verge of a violent fight. Suddenly, a young woman dressed in a beautiful skirt edged with lace came between them. The sharp spears almost touched her body, but she, with an air of disregard, remained calm and simply shook her skirt as if clearing the dust of the road from her hems. The fighters were all astonished by the sudden scene. They stopped advancing upon each other, and even slowly lowered their arms, transfixed as under a spell, watching the woman's waving skirt. After a moment's silence, the captain's of both sides, seeing that their men had lost the spirit of the fight, ordered their soldiers to withdraw, and the battle was averted.'
Belle told George and White Feathers the story and what she planned, eliciting both their encouraging consent. Her son was soon to be parted from the only world he had known and in the company of a man he knew only by reputation, carried away to a faraway place. She intended that the separation would cause him as little distress as was possible under those conditions. She set about to sewing and altering.
As soon as the women folk were all huddled in the girls' room the afternoon before their last night together, the transformation began. When they were done, very late indeed, the twins emerged to the raised eyebrows and appreciative whistles of each of the men lounging in the great room. George, White Feathers, Mr. Allcock, Jameson, and Harry all stood quickly up when the ladies entered. Their hair was piled and curled, and their heeled riding boots were barely visible beneath the full black Anabel skirts. Each wore Lady Hadleigh vests to match the skirts. Titania wore a cornflower blue Moire tie-back, in contrast to Hipolyta's salmon colored one. They had somehow or other also gained curves in all the right places and this forced their admirers to retrace their most recent memories for any prior evidence of same. Their desired effect was achieved. Harry spent all his remaining time with them playing the part of the dapper cosmopolitan and yielding to their every whim. It was truly a bittersweet time for each of them.
Handkerchiefs at the ready and resolved against using them the twins steadied themselves on Harry's arms for a moment longer, then escorted him to the boarding ladder. Each in turn removed from under her vest an envelope and placed it into his hand, kissed him on the nearest cheek and backed slowly to join their parents under the platform lamps in a final wave of farewell. Settled in their state room compartment on the Pullman Palace Car, Harry looked out through the window and thought if he only had a photographer around, that this was the picture of his loved ones he would surely treasure forever. He waved back. With a burst of steam from the Engine the future rolled at him faster than ever before, miles and hours at a time, mountains and prairies and fields he'd never seen.
Harry gathered his memories around him like a gardener transplanting a sapling: trying to keep even the smallest root attached and vital.
He had been the center of attentions in Tahoe City from the day Mr. Allcock's letter arrived and the dinner at Mandy's in celebration, all of which signaled the absolute end of his childhood. His father and mother and Great-uncle White Feathers weren't alone in giving 'last minute' advice and final words. Everyone in town, it seemed, was anxious to pass along special counsels to the 'kid going abroad,' whether they themselves had ever even been any further than Truckee.
His single refuge from the inundation of celebrity was the time he still cherished with his sisters. Very nearly four years younger than himself, the twins were his ever-present reminder that he was just a young man and still quite human. Titania and Hipolyta were also his biggest fans and when they were younger, his constant shadows. They knew his every secret and dream. Fortunately for Harry, he knew each of their special desires and hopes as well, at least the last ones they professed—the lists still changed often it seemed.
They cleared the turn of a mountain shoulder outside of Reno when the first rays of the June morning sun swept away the murky shadows of the pre-dawn and set the open valleys aglitter. “Breakfast is served in a few minutes in the Dining car, laddie---If you've an appetite. Your father assures me you have traveling money for this journey,” said Mr. Allcock, the last almost as a question.
“Yes sir, I do; and I have. We were very appreciative that you included sums and such with the itinerary for the trip,” replied Harry.
“Well, I suggest you only carry what you think you will need for any one day in your purse. Leave the rest secure in your trunk drawer in our locked compartment. That's the safest, I've found,” he added in a fatherly manner and a gentle smile.
“Thank you, sir. I'll see to it presently,” smiled Harry, and began to think Mr. Allcock would be a good traveling companion, from whom he may learn quite a bit. He separated out daily expense funds and then locked the bulk of his bank away as directed, and so joined his elder companion on the walk through a couple coaches up to the Dining car. Once seated, Harry surveyed with some admiration the dining hall and their accommodations. Velvet drapes over the windows let in the morning light which reflected brightly from polished brass fittings on the lacquered wooden poles and ceiling ribs, from which hung ornate lamps and tasseled bell cords. The tables were dressed in linen and set with white china place settings, accented with silverware bearing the engraved initials of the Union Pacific Railway on each piece. The goblets and glasses were crystal, and the cups and saucers matched the china plates, all decorated with the Railway's own designs.
They ordered and coffee was poured, juices delivered with the morning edition of a 'recently local' newspaper set at the table within reach. The aromas of the meal arrived before the server returned laden with a tray of steaming biscuits, eggs, a rasher of bacon and sausages, toast and bowls of jams and butter. They set to the meal in a leisurely manner, Harry trying to imitate Mr. Allcock's deliberate and studied manner and movements, making sure not to finish before his benefactor. His attention went back to the room in front of him, and he noticed how even the the plush and intricate designs in the carpeting complimented the décor.
Their meal finished and the empty dishes removed, Mr. Allcock lifted the bill and went over the listed items of fare with Harry, After establishing its accuracy, he offered pointers for determining the appropriate surcharges and tip. They left the proper sums at the table and retired to the smoking car where Harry had to again admire the forethought and design of the traveling hotel. More velvet window dressings, more well apportioned seating and carefully placed book shelves integral with the walls of the long cabin met his gaze. The elder man produced one of his hand-carved meerschaums, tamped an aromatic blend of tobacco into its bowl, lit it and sat back into the cushioned leather chair.
“So,” he opened, “What do you think so far, Harry?” and he drew a bit on the pipe stem and let out a stream of sweet smelling smoke.
“I am very impressed, sir,” said Harry genuinely. “ I had not conceived how rich were the appointments of the Pullman coaches.”
His companion smiled, “Well said young Harry, well put indeed.” He gestured with his pipe as a professor might use a pointer in a lecture. “Now how have your studies been proceeding; one of the first tasks you'll be set to upon our arrival will be your entrance examinations.”
The train rumbled on beneath their feet as the landscape flowed by the windows and Harry outlined his courses of study to the receptive British gentleman before him. He confessed that he was still uncertain of some of the information contained in no few of the texts, as he had not completely memorized those sections, yet. Confident that, like the rest of the material, once digested he would be able to make a more critical exposition of it. The elder man nodded in satisfaction, knowing that Harry had indeed been applying himself to the required studies. Mr. Allcock hadn't really any doubts on the matter since Harry was the son of George and Belle Livingson, after all. When Harry finished his 'report,' Mr. Allcock offered his observations and commendations to Harry's parents for ensuring that he was sent off properly prepared. Harry's thoughts returned to them as they settled into their stateroom and he gazed out at the passing world.
When he was little, Harry learned quickly the techniques his father employed in fashioning cane rods. From the selection of the best tonkin specimens for splitting, to the temperatures for the curing oven. He could wrap guides and strippers as well or better than most, and intermediates no longer stumped him with their mere three or four turns. George set him to hand rubbing and polishing as soon as he was big enough to hold the rags, and he spent hours sanding the glued and cured rod blanks, reel seats, and grips until his handshake was near as firm as any grown man. He was often set the task of sharpening tools, and soon learned to respect the sharp edges and fine points of the variety of metal tools they relied upon.
His constant 'education' wasn't ignored by his mother either. Belle set him to sorting yarns and threads for her blankets and rugs and stringing them on her traditional looms. When he was three, he had already made a hanging for one of the niche 'shrines' that honored one of Belle's Aunts who had passed into 'Air and Sky' the winter before. One of his chores as soon as he could walk was to help prepare for, and clean up after, the family meals. When she went to market she explained to him what she was choosing and why. When they walked to the nearby stream on washing days, or when they were due for a bathe, it was then she directed Harry how to gather the wild herbs and wildflowers for the medicine chest and pantry. She pointed out the various qualities of the little shrubs, weeds, grasses, trees, and other growths of nature's bounty; she described their uses and seasons. In fact, anywhere his mother or father went, Harry was a constant shadow, and he watched... everything.
When he was tall enough to see over the counter in the hardware store he was given new chores: counting and recording stock on shelves once a week, restocking, cleaning the shopfront windows and the countertops. He became more than familiar with the accounting ledgers, putting his newly learned maths to practical use. He gradually became the face of Livingson Mercantile to delivery men and wholesalers when they passed through on their rounds covering their sales and delivery territories.
Tania and Poly were a big help, or so he told them. Poly could sit happily and count pegs or screws, or bolts and nuts until drowsy with sleep. Tania knew where every obscure bangle, bobble, thingamagig and whatsit sat on shelves or under cabinets throughout the store and stockroom. Probably from her habit of following around the store cat on its forays in search of critters ever since she and her sister became clever enough to crawl. The shop always had at least one hunter-in-residence whose sole job in life was to keep the place vermin-free, and they took their position of importance very seriously indeed. When not actively on patrol, it could be found in close proximity of one, or both of the twins, graciously accepting the adoration from whom they evidently considered their co-workers.
They each continued their house chores and learned something new all the time. Whether it was the preparation of a new meal, or a more efficient method to perform an already familiar task, they were like sponges soaking up the attentions and instructions of their parents and Great-uncle. On days when there was a lapse in needed chore business, they sat in the great room and Harry would read from a new or favorite play. He changed his voice to fit the characters and even got used to the accents suggested by the Bard's scripted lines. As they got older, they each took a role in the productions and before long, like Bottom the Weaver, Poly and Tania wanted to play ALL the parts. On rainy or snowy days which kept them inside, they would put on performances for their adoring fans---ofttimes the store cats, sometimes their family, but always an appreciative audience.
Harry gazed sidelong for a moment as the Great Plains smeared past the open state room window situated over where he sat at a small table. The air was warm and smelled of sweet grasses and early summer wild flowers. Harry reopened a text on the cultures of classical Greece and Rome and set to absorbing the nuances of ideals propounded by this or that philosopher, statesman or general whose insights filled the pages of the volume. He could sit for long stretches immersed in the antiquities, imagining himself among the colonnades and odea of the ancient cities, the great architectures and ideas of an age long past.
Dinner would be served around seven, so he had a bit of time before dressing for the event to duck down into the Gent's lavatory to freshen up a bit. He liked using the common lavatory at the other end of the coach; it gave Mr. Allcock free reign of the accommodations in the cabin and allowed Harry a sense of freedom and liberty to which he was gradually becoming accustomed. He gathered his kit bag and, remembering to lock the cabin door behind him, walked through the passageway of fellow travelers' compartments to the Gentleman's closet. It was unoccupied, so he set himself to brushing his dinner suit, polishing his boot tops, and airing his best linen shirt. With his wardrobe for the evening prepared, he combed his hair, checked his reflection for any necessary grooming, then he crossed the hall to the lavatory to complete his activities.
Mr. Allcock was seated reviewing the sheaves of business correspondence in his hand and looked up as Harry re-entered. “I thought you may be sprucing up a bit, laddie,” he said as the young man closed the cabin door behind him. “I have to get these names and figures sorted in my head before we arrive in Chicago, Saturday afternoon, and it takes me longer these days to cement new things into my mind than it once did,” he admitted, waving the papers in his hands. Harry, who could commiserate with the activity after his day of studies, nodded in sympathy. “I have meetings with no less than five suppliers and three wholesalers before I even get to review my own operations at the factory in Toronto,” continued Samuel in mock solemnity, clearly pleased and proud that his North American ventures were going so well. Harry smiled encouragingly.
“Which brings me to an issue I need not postpone,” Mr. Allcock was saying. “I want you to accompany me to all these appointments, Harry, and do me the service of being my adjutant,” he paused to assess the reaction. Harry remained expressionless. “It won't do for me to be lugging about all the forms and letters and notes I'll be needing along the way. Would you consider it a favor to perform this office for me, Harry?” Before he could respond, Samuel added, “I know it's not exactly what your folks sent you along to do, but it would be a blessing to me to have someone at my elbow I can trust,” he finished.
Harry felt a swelling of pride at the unexpected responsibilities being offered and answered with full voice, “I shall consider it an honor sir and will endeavor to disport myself appropriate to the office you require of me.” A handshake on it, and the two companions finished their preparations for dinner while the clackety-clack and whistling windows of the rolling train sounded as background to their quiet communion and each their private thoughts and recollections.
Just before the girls were born, he had been on his first over-night camping and fishing trip with his father and White Feathers. His mother had clucked over him for what seemed like an hour reassuring herself: 'had he remembered his extra socks, his rain poncho, his hat, his...' on and on. White Feathers had scooped him up onto his broad shoulders to rescue him from the interrogation and set him in the boat as if it were 'base' in a game of tag. He could still see the expression on his mother's face, hands on her hips, and the apron over her huge rounded belly fluttered in the breeze as her uncle turned to face her and promised to guard 'her boy' with his life. His father came out of the house behind her with a pack over one shoulder. He reached for her waist and pulled her around to him, then... White Feathers pointed over the lake at the gentlest of breezes on the water as a 'good sign.' Harry turned away from his mother and father to see. When he turned back, his mother was almost to the house and his father was coming to the boat, grinning and saying, “This as an important day for you, Biggun.” They pushed off, set course, and were away.
They fished, and Harry caught a Kokanee Salmon large enough to be his dinner. He helped clean it when they set up camp that evening and assisted in cooking the meal. That fish was the best he'd ever tasted. While they cleaned and tidied up, White Feathers and his father chatted.
“And she never noticed the slits you cut in her living room wall,” said his Great-uncle.
“Fortunately, no. I slipped a hanging rug a little to the left and mopped the floor after myself. It was as much a surprise to her as for Biggun over there,” answered George.
“And you don't think she suspected a thing when the workmen were digging right outside the bedroom wall?” pursued White Feathers.
“I told her the outhouse was needing maintenance and cleaning. And she said, 'And about time, too. I haven't mentioned it, but that job was long over due---thank you very much.' She said it, I'm sure, half convinced it was her own idea! I about split my vest holding back my laughter at that.” George almost doubled up in hilarity just repeating it.
When they had both recovered themselves, the old man patted him on the back, “Having all the bits measured, cut, stacked and hidden, ready to go was a brilliant stroke my boy, simply brilliant,” concluded White Feathers.
“The hardest part,” said George, “was keeping Wang Lung, Lizette, and the others from spilling the beans while I was making preparations and hurrying to get it completed before our next bundles of joy arrive.”
As the long shadows of dusk settled over their tents, the campfire beckoned warmly. White Feathers, with a nod of permission from George, offered Harry a sip of his beer. The boy accepted the bottle with gusto and tipped it up for a swig. He winced involuntarily and his head shook back and forth against his will, while he tried as best he could to smile as if it were the best thing he ever tasted. The roars of laughter from the older men at his absurdly conflicted expressions rang out suddenly over the lake and echoed through the woods. White Feathers actually had snot dripping from his nose he was so beside himself at the sight. After he blew his nose and regained his composure, he began a story of his first camp and fishing memories of his youth. Harry nodded off into a contented sleep long before it was all told and awoke next morning to the aroma of cooking bacon seeping through the tent flap.
“Good morning Biggun,” announced his father as White Feathers returned from gathering more dry branches to feed the fire. “Do you think you can break up those limbs and keep the fire going for a bit 'til I finish breakfast?” he asked of the boy.
“Sure!” answered Harry quickly. He had often performed this chore for his mom in their kitchen. He knew how much and when to add the fuel so the fire stayed hot but didn't flame up too much. The open campfire presented challenges the cookstove at home hadn't, but he managed admirably and both his father and uncle said so.
When the tent was stowed and the fire extinguished and scattered, they went for a hike a little ways up from their campsite to a bend in a river above the lake. “This is where I first saw anyone turn fishing into a beautiful dance of light and skill.” White Feathers told Harry.
“Your uncle was standing right where you are now, Harry, as quiet as a tree, for I didn't hear a sound. And as I moved to another part of the river, I nearly peed my pants when this big grinning beast appeared from out of nowhere!” said George.
“Your father graciously taught me to use his fly rod and let me fish with it for a just a few minutes, and I was hooked,” added White Feathers.
They moved down to the river, separated, and began to cast, each to their own section of stream. In no time it seemed, first Harry then each in turn had landed a trout. Thus they continued until the sun shone straight down through the forest canopy, dazzling and blinding their eyes, reflected up from the sparkling water. They strung their catch and headed back down to the awaiting boat. As they walked, George sang a folk song from his youth, White Feathers chanted a hunting song, and Harry was bewitched by his being with the 'men' on this most wonderful of days.
The Smoking Lounge was more crowded this evening than it had been in the late morning. They passed through the wispy clouds of gray smoke and emerged at the door to the Dining car. Seated once again in the rolling restaurant, they were offered bills of fare and chose quickly from the selections available. They both had wine with their meal; Harry had the trout and therefore a white wine, Samuel Allcock ordered the roast beef, and so a red California vintage was placed before him. Avoiding any mention of business or studies, Harry asked after Mr. Allcock's family and residence in “...Redditch, is it?”
“Ay,” warmed Mr. Allcock, “We moved to Clive House, it's closer to the factory and a bit more room...” He described the gardens, the town, the church, and his factory all with such fondness it made Harry wonder what a toll it must take on him to be