We Journey North
The College employees Union contract negotiations had ended poorly last spring, leaving the professors with an increase of just .012 percent to our base wages and an extra round of hard cheese annually. Put simply, my wallet was bare. But, the Galubrious family had a few more prizes left, in the corner of my study I swept off a blizzard of un-graded research papers and opened the lid of a heavy trunk emblazoned with a gilded GG and rummaged through the contents. I pulled out an early Baroque sardine fork and turned it over in my hand, its worn handle was sculpted in the shape of two golden cranes their necks intertwined holding high in their beaks a magnificent carbuncle squid. The workmanship was magnificent – it was crafted by Julliet Faberge, the one armed goldsmith who lived in the shadows of her more famous cousins. The many tentacles of the squid have, since the dark ages, symbolized the eight levels of devotion. This particular sardine fork had been a gift to Napoleon by his secret Russian love. It was said that he would never enter battle without the treasure tucked close to his heart – when time and circumstance would stir him to thoughts of his beloved, he would slip his hand under his lapel and stroke the long necks of the cranes.
As the carriage neared the station I directed the driver down a thin alley, it was here in the opaque shadows that I traded the small, storied treasure for a roll of drab bills. The transaction yielded more than enough to fund our travels north and keep us fed and housed for many months to come.
Grey mill towns gave way to white hills and scattered villages with church spires piercing the horizon as the train pushed its way North. Finally fields in turn gave way to deep forests. Dawn broke through the trees and emblazoned a red haze as the buds at the tips of the maples were beginning to swell in the morning sun of March.
We sat in the Café Cart, and I order eggs, bacon, toasts with rhubarb jam and a slice of apple pie with Vermont cheddar cheese, and somewhat wistfully, a side of sardines. The girls had griddlecakes, sausages and melon balls, which Lucia immediately began assembling into a molecular model of nitrous oxide. The train jostled as it made its way around the curves of the green mountains, collapsing the structure and sending a great pool of maple syrup over the rim of Lucia’s plate. The sticky wave landed squarely in the lap of Lenore who sat staring out the window, a melon ball frozen half way to her mouth, snapping her out of her daydream.
I too, had been lost in thought, wondering what lay before us in the quiet town of Winterbottom, whether this was a fool’s errand. The porter walked sleepy-eyed through the corridors, punching tickets and thrusting them back. When he got to our seats I took the opportunity to ask him how long it would be before our stop. He pried a ticket from Lenore’s sticky hands pulling a taffy-like syrupy thread across the table. He looked down his nose through trifocals at our tickets, “You can’t go any further north without entering the Queen’s Dominion, Winterbottom is the last stop before Canada, they’ll make an announcement in about an hour. Hope you’ve brought your heavy coats.”
Composed by Dr. G on Sunday, Mar. 16, 2008
Gentle Reader Responses
Loryienne says:
Oh, parting with your early Baroque sardine fork must have been very difficult.
The trip sounds charming, however.
Dr G says:
Ah yes, the sardine fork, It was hard to give it up. It falls back to the same age old question - art or science? Newton himself had to sell the family's little Vermeer "girl with an opal toe ring" in order to fund the purchase of the orchard required for his experiments. DaVinci had to sell his scale model of a micro-processing chip - carved entirely out of lard - in order to purchase the oils and pigments to paint the Mona Lisa. Who can say what history will one day make of our mortal actions?
Rosemary Renlund says:
Ah, dear Dr. Galubrious. Well do I remember the day when Pappa Renlund, to keep the wolf from the door, parted with Princess Christine Louise of Oettingen-Oettingen's dainty cloisonné snuffbox. It was a mournful day in the Renlund household. I do hold out hope, though, that it will come right for you and your charming daughters in the end.
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