It was still pitch dark when my Grandfather started out to visit his Uncle. Let me explain that my Grandfather was not a grandfather then, and his Uncle was a man who entertained and charmed everyone he met—not someone who was dead and forgotten.
My Grandfather began by rowing across the Siuslaw River in his father’s skiff. Since the tidal flow was ebbing, he rowed upriver close to the shore for several hundred yards and then made his crossing, pulling hard on the oars and keeping his eye on the lantern light coming from the ferry dock on the other side. The night air that filled my Grandfather’s lungs was cool, moist, and almost shockingly fresh—rich, briny, and alive. The tide pushed the boat downstream, but my Grandfather had timed it perfectly, and landed the skiff on a small beach next to the ferry dock.
He secured the boat and taking his small pack began to walk toward the west. This time of day he always called “false daylight,” because a faint light was leaking over the eastern horizon from a sun that would not rise for a good hour yet. It was light sufficient to walk by, if you were careful and knew the way. Ahead of him he could see the great black mounds that were the Oregon Sand Dunes. As he walked, the sounds of the surf grew louder, and before long he had trudged over a series of smaller dunes and descended down onto the darkened beach and headed south.
The beach was perfect for walking and a fast walker could make good time. No headwind had developed as yet that morning, and above the fog there would suddenly appear patches of sparkling stars. It was a strange feeling to walk when all the landmarks were still obscured and with the ocean thundering in his ears. It was as if he were walking in place, or in suspension, hearing his own breathing and the rapid cadence of his steps.
My Grandfather covered ten miles of beach in less than three hours. Gradually, the ocean world took in more light in a slow process that seemed like a kind of seepage. He left the beach, finally, and turned inland, again over dunes, and then along an ancient Indian trail through the rough and rooted forest until he connected up with the muddy cart path leading to the north bank of the Umpqua River and the bustling little town of Gardiner, Oregon.
It was late morning now and folks were boarding the stern-wheeler
Eva as my Grandfather arrived. The
Eva would take the passengers downriver to catch the beach-going stagecoach to Coos Bay. Then the Eva would turn back and steam upriver to Scottsburg with its freight and mailbags. My Grandfather leaned against the railing to rest from his long walk, and noticed the pretty young women nearby who were waving to friends on the dock. But the pretty girls just filled him with sadness!
My Grandfather had much older half-sister whose name was Carrie—older enough, in fact, to almost have been his mother. She was the daughter of his father’s first wife who died giving her birth on a cold and merciless day at Alpena, Michigan so long ago. Now Carrie already had five daughters of her own, and they were only slightly younger than my Grandfather himself who was their half-Uncle. “Harry is here!” they would shout when my Grandfather came upriver to visit their farm, and as a boy he spent his whole summers there, helping out their father with the farm work. The girls adored my Grandfather and he loved them, and they grew to be young women.
Leaning against the rail of the Eva, my Grandfather felt the now-familiar despair. What was a half-Uncle? Why did there have to be half-uncles? Why did being this thing called a half-uncle have to ruin all his hopes? And there were five of them that he loved, and that meant that five times over he was ruined.
Later, my Grandfather would marry unhappily. He was a quiet man and a sweet man, without any trace of violence, and some people will take advantage of such a person. After two children—a girl and a boy—were born in fast succession, his wife demanded a separate bedroom, and forever after went there at bedtime and closed the door. She hated being pregnant and disliked its effect on her figure. As for my Grandfather, she treated him as if he were a man from whom nothing was expected. His daughter, too, adopted this attitude, learning it from her mother. His son saw how his father was treated and vowed to be the master of his own house when he should marry. Yet he, too, treated my Grandfather as if nothing was expected. But these reverses were still ahead of him, and thankfully, they were unanticipated.
When the
Eva docked near the Umpqua Lighthouse, my Grandfather was the first one off the boat and he headed quickly for the beach, skirting the Barrett stagecoach that waited to take the passengers by way of the beach to Coos Bay—for the stage demanded an exorbitant fee of 7 dollars for the trip, an amount that was well beyond his means. Yet he kept a watch for the appearance of the stage, and he soon saw it coming briskly, pulled by four large horses. The canvas curtains were down on the ocean side, as he had expected they would be, in order to shield the passengers from the chill of the wind. That, then, was the blind side of the stagecoach. Walking along the surf line with his head down, he waited until the stage just passed him, and then with a few running steps he reached the stage and jumped up on the trunk rack.
Through the canvas curtains he could clearly hear the conversations of the passengers. They had seen him walking, of course, as they approached from behind, and one person was even talking about him now. “Well,” they said, “that young man sure has a long, long way to go,” and everyone laughed. My Grandfather smiled and looked out at the ocean from his secret perch on the stagecoach. A clearing sky was persuading the ocean to be blue. On the crests of the breakers, the wind combed the ocean foam and blew it back toward the sea in shocks of gleaming, silver hair. My Grandfather must have thought: i
t’s not over for me; it is only beginning. And so how could he be happier? He was young, and he was moving, and he lived in the most beautiful place in the world, and he had just committed a harmless larceny and gotten away with it!
About a mile before the stage reached Coos Bay, my Grandfather jumped down again to the sand. Best not to alert the driver to his tactics, because he might want to use them again. Besides, he was not going to cross over the bay because his Uncle lived on this side, at a place called Haynes Inlet. The rest of his journey involved more walking, a couple of cart rides, and the flagging down of a friendly boater to take him across the inlet to his Uncle’s house.
His uncle had written that he was getting married! Coming from a lifelong bachelor, this was quite a surprise. It was the lady next door, the one with the sullen brother. His Uncle wrote:
Your letter of the 15th was laid on the table. I bet yood a laughed when I put one of those owl cigars between my teeth and walked out. just as soon as I got out of the house it seemed liked all the big white owls was next, for they started to ask who—who—who—who—who. I thought they wanted to know who—who—who—who—who—who sent them to me?
Say there was two women just came in, and my new wife makes three, and they are talking. I try to keep track of what they are talking about and write too, I find imposable. The dog got tired of listening so he went out on the porch to scratch his flees.
So I married the woman next door and it appears her brother too. When you get old, Harry, the silence just gets silenter. I’m that old stiff you call, Uncle Bill.It was early evening when my Grandfather approached his Uncle’s house. My Grandfather had made it all the way down there in one day. When he walked in they all said “Harry,” with expressions of the greatest pleasure—even the sullen brother was beaming. On the table were the White Owl cigars my Grandfather had mailed, and his Uncle’s collection of Indian arrowheads—for his Uncle was fascinated with Indian lore and had made a study of Indian woodsmanship. Another chair was quickly pulled to the table because they knew he must be tired. His Uncle said there was stew and biscuits for dinner, but first they must all have a round of hard cider in honor of Harry.
And so the evening was a happy one of talk and laughter around that table, within that house in a lost world.
Perhaps, later… they played at cards—I don’t know. I don’t know if they played cards… for there must be now some limit to my seeing.
There is a party starting up next door with loud music and I have no choice but to stop writing. I’ve looked out and seen a large group of people in the next yard. With the music that loud, how can they hear what each other is saying? And many are on cell phones, talking to people elsewhere. There are two young men who seem to be competing to see who has the loudest, and most insincere laugh. I suppose they are trying to impress the girls. But let them play. Let them play. Perhaps they are perfectly happy in
their lost world, the one we call the Present.
