“That's the reason they're called lessons because they lessen from day to day.” ~ Lewis Carroll
The morning brought sunshine to assist in warming the temperature and offering the promise of an early spring. Of course, in January, a true Bostonian knew the promise would soon be broken by the next Nor’easter heading up the coast. With his “cattle branding” hat in hand, Scott stood on the front steps of his grandfather's home, his face turned upwards to appreciate the sun.
Harlan carried an annoyed demeanor out to join his grandson. “Please explain why you feel it's necessary I give up my comfortable robe, warm fire, and daily paper before the hour of seven to go for a ride.”
“I tasted the coffee your kitchen is currently serving.”
Squinting, his grandfather gestured toward the carriage. “Where’s our driver?”
“He’s standing beside you.”
“Scotty, be reasonable -”
“Sir, I apologize.” Scott fought off a grin. “I wasn’t aware your sense of adventure had been robbed by your advancing years.” Avoiding eye contact, Scott donned his hat and adjusted it low on his brow.
“Nonsense! Let’s go.” Harlan descended the steps. “And don’t think for one minute that ridiculous hat is masking the smirk on your face.”
‘Carpe Diem - Seize the Day.’ The smirk widened to release the grin as Scott rubbed his hands together. ‘Indeed.’
His grandfather's initial skepticism dissolved during a refilled mug of the best coffee in town.
A raised eyebrow accompanied Scott’s inquiry. “Well?”
“Yes. The coffee is very good.”
Scott pointed to the plate of crumbs where a scone had rested. “And?”
“Comparable to the ones Mrs. MacLoughlin blessed me with each day.” Harlan's eyes darted about to view the bake shop’s working-class patrons. “Tell me, how did you learn of this place?”
“Word of mouth.” Not wanting to reveal the owner of the words or the mouth, Scott tackled a new topic. He'd noticed slight changes in his grandfather’s appearance and routine which sparked Scott’s concern.
In the past, his grandmother had hovered over the Garrett patriarch. When she died, Winifred MacLoughlin took on the duties. With Winnie gone, interrogating his grandfather - an infrequent occurrence - now seemed necessary. Scott thought the task would be easier outside the home considering Harlan’s study had a history of being their battleground. “Sir, I’m worried you're not eating well.”
“What would indicate my diet is less than adequate?”
“Stewed eels.”
Harlan snorted. “It’s an acquired taste.”
“All right, answer me this - when did snoring become a prerequisite to completing paperwork? The luxury of an afternoon nap was never in your day’s agenda.”
“What are you implying? I’m fit as a fiddle, Scotty, and I don’t deserve your dubious expression. If you don’t believe me, you can go ask Everett. His office isn’t far from here.”
“Wait.” Scott’s fork rattled to his plate. “Honest Everett is your doctor?”
“Honest Everett.” Harlan chuckled. “Well, I can’t vouch for his honesty in some areas, but he’s a damn good doctor.”
“I watched the man down double bourbons and smoke more than the stacks at the Revere Sugar Refinery.”
“I see no connection between Everett’s personal lifestyle and his practice of medicine.”
“Sir, he’s your childhood friend and a Union Club crony.”
“Proving he’s a well-bred gentleman with years of experience as a physician.”
“No. It proves you’ve found a doctor who will tell you what you want to hear.”
“I’m fine. End of discussion.” Scott watched Harlan place his napkin on the table and rise. “Shall we go?” Retrieving his coat and hat, he left the bake shop.
End of discussion - hard-learned lessons taught Scott the phrase signaled he wasn't to question his grandfather's health again. Finishing the last of his coffee, he stared at the empty chair across the table. “That went well.” Scott wanted to kick himself for letting the wrong words take control of their talk. Grabbing his hat, he rose to find his grandfather. “So much for easy.”
They called it “resetting the clock” meaning clean the slate - start over. The brothers relied on the expression after sharing harsh words or flying fists. Murdoch first came up with the term, but Johnny made reference to it more often. The old man and I had words, brother, but we reset the clock. Scott steered the carriage through the streets of Boston - taking unnecessary side avenues to extend the ride and give him time to reset the clock with his captive audience.
“Have you forgotten your way home?” Annoyance guided his grandfather’s tone.
“No, sir. I enjoy discovering how quickly Boston changes from one visit to the next.”
The clip-clop of the horse's hooves counted down the minutes.
“Well, Scotty, in this neighborhood you’re only going to reminisce chasing the young ladies with that reckless friend of yours...Jerome?”
“George.”
“Yes. George. It took an act of God to keep your name out of the papers.”
A wistful sigh accompanied a slight smile. Ah, those lovely debutantes in search of love. His grandfather didn’t know the half of it. “I’m sure you were down on your knees each night praying for my salvation.”
“No. Mrs. MacLoughlin assumed that responsibility. My evenings were spent dealing with angry fathers and paying off Boston Courier’s editor of the social page.”
With the grin disappearing, Scott's eyes widened. Perhaps his grandfather knew more than half.
Harlan pointed. “If you want to see change, turn here. It will take us to the Back Bay.”
Scott didn’t care if he viewed the leaps and bounds of Boston’s progress. His goal was a congenial conversation with his grandfather.
“Fletcher insisted our ancestors stepped off the Mayflower. But in truth, it was the Arabella.”
Scott’s brain did a double take. ‘The Mayflower?’ The reminiscing appeared to be traveling further back than just his poor choice of a childhood friend. “Why would he insist on the Mayflower?”
“Ignorance.” Harlan could make his huffed word sound like a death sentence. “He thought saying Mayflower held more status. In my opinion, not one person who tumbled off the Mayflower could hold a candle to the contributions made by the fine families sailing on the Arabella. The Underhills, the Phillips, the Winthrops -”
“The Garretts.” Scott noticed the frown lines lessening on his grandfather’s forehead and felt the clock resetting.
“Yes, the Garretts. You won’t find those names on the Mayflower passenger list! Did you know Anne Bradstreet, the first European female poet to be published in the New World, sailed on the Arabella?”
“No, sir, I didn’t.” Scott made a mental note to visit the Corner Bookstore to purchase a copy of Bradstreet’s poems for Kinsey. His little cousin would find the idea of the first female poet in the New World experiencing seasickness with a Garrett ancestor quite extraordinary.
Stopping the carriage at an elevated vantage point, both men quietly watched the progress being made in Boston’s Back Bay - a massive project. Newspapers reported trains arriving around the clock carrying gravel in order to "make land" by filling a swampy area enclosed by a milldam. By the look of it, Scott estimated it would take a few more years.
Harlan’s next statement replaced reminiscing with thoughts on the present. “You, along with Kinsey, are the last in the Garrett lineage to be successful and carry on the legacy.”
Scott reflected on his grandfather's words. “I'd think you would want us to be happy.”
“Success brings happiness.”
“Does it?” Scott watched another load of fill avalanche into the swamp.
Harlan sighed. “Fine. Happily successful.”
“I prefer to be successfully happy.” Feeling the need to confirm, Scott added. “Which I am and so is Kinsey.”
Harlan crossed his arms and shook his head. “Kinsey - a holy terror as a child. She kicked and screamed at the word no. It wasn't her fault having zero discipline in her life. Her parents ignored her. All she needed was guidance and a few well-placed swats.” The imagine of a defiant eight-year old Kinsey telling Harlan Garrett no popped into Scott’s head as his grandfather added. “Thank God, she’s changed.”
Laughing, Scott nodded in agreement. “Yes, I believe she’s grown one or two inches since then.”
Harlan’s snort signaled his appreciation of the jest while another load of gravel rumbled to its destination. “The very reason why it's so important she marries the right man. You can’t be her guide for the rest of your life, Scotty.”
Scott focused on the scene in front of him to show little emotion as he understood the purpose for the reminiscing. Treading lightly, he kept an upbeat flavor to his response. “And Seth Westcott has your vote for being that man?”
“Well, from what I've been told, you're more qualified to answer the question since you’ve met the lad. I can only point out Westcott is a good family name.”
“Which boat did the Westcotts tumble off of?”
“The Arabella, of course.” Harlan beamed.
Scott flicked the horse’s reins to move forward. He'd experienced enough of the progress being accomplished in Boston today.
I shall be retiring to my room for an hour of repose. Harlan announced his intention with an authoritative delivery fit to be the eleventh commandment. Scott guessed his grandfather would no longer depend on the ruse of “completing paperwork” to sneak in his afternoon nap. Knowing the study would be unoccupied, Scott entered the room on a mission - locate the Garrett family bible.
The tooled leather cover of the large Bible commanded respect as Scott pulled it from the bookcase shelf. Still quite clear were the memories of his grandmother painstakingly entering names and dates on its gold-bordered pages. With her pen and ink, she recorded the joy of births, the celebration of marriages and the mourning of deaths. The Bible took Scott back in time as he viewed his grandmother’s beautiful penmanship joining other handwritings belonging to previous Garrett record keepers.
Turning to the family history of births, Scott’s finger traveled down the list, stopping when he reached his mother’s. He imagined the whole town of Boston knew of her arrival. Smiling, his finger continued its path stopping at Scott Garrett Lancer. Directly below his name appeared Kinsey Rose Furlong - the final name his grandmother had written. It seemed his grandfather’s earlier statement held true. He and Kinsey were the last in the Garrett family tree.
Viewing the recorded marriages, Scott found his parents’ and surprisingly Murdoch's name hadn't been crossed out - surely Harlan suggested it be done. His mother’s appeared once again on the list of lost relatives. His finger slowly traced over the letters spelling Catherine - feeling his grandmother’s overwhelming sadness as she penned her daughter’s name. Further on the list was his grandfather's handwriting entering the passing of his wife.
‘Enough.’ Scott closed the Bible. Enough memories for one day. Placing the heavy book back in its proper place, a flash of red from above caught Scott’s eye. Assisted by the first rung of the library ladder, Scott snagged the book from the top shelf to read the title.
“Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.”
An envelope fell out of the book and hit the floor. Stepping down, Scott picked it up and turned it over. It was addressed to Scotty Garrett - in Winnie’s handwriting.
Plopping in the nearest chair with the open book in his lap and the envelope in his hand, Scott stared at the intricate pattern of the study’s Persian rug. He had spoken too soon. The afternoon offered one more memory and he wasn't certain if he had room for it.
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