Beacon Hill, Boston
Dodging. The word basically sums up my stay in Boston thus far and I’ve decided to create a list of those embracing the art of avoidance - myself included.
No. 1 - Honest Everett. My grandfather's physician, William Everett, proved to be a master in side-stepping. Thus, the required effort to visit the good doctor without being discovered by watchful eyes turned out to be a waste of my energy.
“Your grandfather is a difficult man. Quite stubborn.”
Scott didn’t know how else to respond to the statement except to ...well...not respond. A gentleman certainly didn’t need a degree in medicine to diagnosis a terminal case of Garrett stubbornness.
Everett, feeling the effects of his visitor’s attentive stare which demanded further details, cleared his throat. “Considering his age and...disposition, Harlan is, ah…” The doctor shuffled papers while donning a sheepish grin. “Getting by. Although a warmer climate would benefit his arthritis. California, perhaps?”
I'm uncertain if the suggestion of relocation is a remedy for my grandfather’s joint discomfort or for the pain he’s creating in his doctor’s ass. I do know the latter malady would most certainly inflict my father’s posterior if Harlan Garrett were to take up permanent residence anywhere west of the Mississippi.
No. 2 - My brother. Johnny can consistently evade unpopular topics and dodge disagreeable activities which include shopping with a female. However, it appears he met his Waterloo in San Francisco.
Holding true to his word, Martin continued to use Emerson as the postal service for the telegrams. The humorous correspondences traveling across the country kept Scott’s frustration with his grandfather in check. Ripping open the first envelope, words jumped off Western Union’s thin paper.
HOW MANY SADDLES DOES ONE FILLY NEED TO BUY J
Picturing his brother buried under armloads of packages as he begrudgingly traveled from one storefront to the next inspired a dimple-laden upward turn of Scott’s mouth. It must have been one helluva battle but the “little Napoleon” won her high ground and they’d stayed an extra day. Opening the second envelope treated Scott to Kinsey’s message.
STONE LECTURES INSPIRING RELUCTANT ESCORT HOMESICK TRINKETS PURCHASED LEAVE TOMORROW K
Perhaps it’s true love which weakened my cousin’s adversary but I'm betting on his lack of tequila as the culprit. Two polar personalities disagreeing the moment their paths crossed, yet, bringing a balance to each other’s lives - the enigma Johnny and Kinsey continue to create.
No. 3 - Me. I now fully comprehend my younger brother’s use of the word magpies and why he avoids them. I have been dodging the Boston Magpies, Mrs. Stewart and Mrs. Whelan, since day one. I could proudly submit reports of success if it weren't for the evening meals.
Scott cast a downward expression of dismay as a bowl of thick brown liquid appeared at his place setting. It was the fourth day of the culinary guessing game challenging his proper upbringing of politeness. “What is this…” Struggling with pleasantries, he picked up a spoon. “...tempting my tastebuds tonight?”
Mrs. Stewart proclamation rivaled announcing Queen Victoria. “Mock Turtle Soup!”
Scott snorted a laugh. “Alice would approve.”
“Alice? Another mouth needin’ fed? Where she be hidin’?” Mrs. Whelan’s frantic concern a dinner guest had been misplaced caused her to peer under the table.
Scott held his side in an attempt to stifle the laughter breaking loose. However, trying to contain his amusement only made it worse. Even the sobering effects of a grandfather's disapproval couldn’t bring it under control. Catching his breath, Scott poked at one of the objects floating in the soup. “And what are these?”
“Brain Balls.” Mrs. Stewart beamed. “Ye be pleased to know, my dear lad, we be usin’ every part of the calf’s head fer yer dinner this evening.”
Johnny isn’t the only one growing homesick.
No. 4 - My grandfather. When it comes to dodging issues, the man excels.
Harlan could redirect a conversation quicker than Scott could recite Emerson. Extracting information from the Garrett patriarch compared to the undertaking of pulling a tooth - by a dentist who, no doubt, was another cigar-smoking, bourbon drinking, Arabella sailing, Union Club member. Distractions foiled Scott’s every attempt to discuss with his grandfather the subject of Phillip Westcott, Seth Westcott, the Westcott Vineyards or the Westcott financing. Ignoring the word “west” became so obvious, Scott retrieved an atlas to confirm the direction still existed.
When my grandfather suggested we dine this evening at the Parker House, I immediately agreed. Perhaps conversations will be easier over a thick steak, several glasses of wine and a piece of Boston cream pie.
~ S.
Ah, Boston cream pie. Scott tried not to have too many vices but, upon his return from the war, his craving for the Parker House creation started. He couldn't get enough of the yellow butter cake filled with custard and topped with chocolate - an addiction Scott found difficult to satisfy in California. Come to think of it - how hard could it be to bake the cream pie? The decision was made. As soon as he got home he would assemble his kitchen army - Maria, Teresa and Kinsey - and they would be victorious.
Smiling at the menu, his eyes spotted all of the entrées his hunger had hoped for - including dessert. His focus momentarily settled on his grandfather before moving to the status-rich environment surrounding him and then back to the menu. He looked forward to productive conversations and an evening meal where all the courses could be easily identified.
“Harlan! Forgive my tardiness.”
Scott's glance upward discovered a face he did not recognize. Watching this man sit as if he should be welcomed as an old acquaintance raised a red flag.
“Phillip! No need for apologies.” His grandfather's friendly persona softened the demand for authority.
The gentleman known as Phillip extended his hand. “Mr. Lancer. We meet at last. My grandson has told me so much regarding you and your cousin.”
Author’s notes: Opening in 1855, the Parker House soon established a reputation as a rendezvous for not only politicians but poets and writers - Longfellow, Emerson, Dickens to name a few. The notoriety of catering to the well-known had its drawbacks - John Wilkes Booth had stayed at the Parker House eight days before assassinating President Lincoln.
Oliver Wendell Holmes stated it best - “Such feasts! The laughs of many a jocund hour That shook the mortar from King George’s tower; Such guests! What famous names its record boasts, Whose owners wander in the mob of ghosts!”
The Parker House credits also include the creation of Scott's addiction - Boston cream pie.
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