San Joaquin Valley
Lancer Ranch
Each time I revisit Emerson’s essay “Experience” I find there are still passages I struggle through.
“Damn.”
Unfortunately, understanding Emerson wasn’t the current struggle. With a sigh, Scott set his pencil aside and ran a thumbnail down the bound edge of the page, coaxing it to lie flat. A ritual often repeated when starting a new journal.
His last journal, nicely broken in, had met the same fate as the matching one he’d bought Kinsey. His idea of a unique wedding gift for his little cousin now blew in the wind with the ashes of other lost possessions.
He could still follow through on his plan by purchasing another journal for Kinsey. She’d draw, he’d write and, after a bookbinder worked his magic, their reflections would be bound together as one. Of course, those reflections wouldn’t be inspired by a cross-country adventure eastward but that of a western invasion from Beacon Hill. Not the finest wedding gift a best man could give the bride but it sure as hell would make one great dime novel.
A grin surfaced to push aside annoyance. “Beware the Bloodsuckers from Boston Bay.” As the possible title for an imaginary penny dreadful bounced off his bedroom wall, Scott's eyes settled on a folded letter nearby. “No disrespect intended, sir. The alliteration was simply too good to pass up.”
Finally persuaded to cooperate, the journal’s page allowed writing to continue.
Nevertheless, one line from Emerson’s writings presented itself clearly from the beginning: The years teach much which the days never know.
Indeed they do. Over the years, I have discovered that a single day shouldn’t guide final judgment; it is only a blink of a moment in life. It’s the passage of time where gathered experiences speak and lessons are learned.
*********
The oak tree’s shadow had made a gradual journey across prairie grass while Scott pondered his grandfather’s letter. Reading the correspondence again wouldn’t change any of the words or the invisible messages residing between the written lines. It was a fact. Harlan Garrett, accompanied by Roberta Westcott, would be stepping off a train in Stockton by the end of the month. Period.
However, what Scott could change was his perspective on the situation.
Ah, now, ScottyGarrett, the Good Lord made certain that each day only gets twenty-four hours and then he starts a fresh one for us. And do ye know why that is?
So Father Fetterman’s sermon will finally end?
Don’t be a cheeky lad. It’s so we can make the best of it one day at a time while we travel ‘round God’s sun.
Winnie’s often-bestowed advice seemed appropriate for the upcoming holiday with Grandfather. Good or bad, Scott would make the best of it, one day at a time. The Boston letter received one last glance before being returned to its envelope. There was no denying, making the best of it proved pivotal when traveling around God’s sun with Harlan Garrett.
Of course, convincing his father to follow suit was a different matter. Scott felt certain Winifred MacLoughlin’s biblical enlightenment would fall short when guiding Murdoch Lancer to a positive perspective. A pouring of the good stuff seemed more prudent before starting any discussion of a family reunion - a discussion absent of the word extended.
The final worry lines resting across Scott’s brow faded as the dutiful pen knife opened the envelope from Sacramento, releasing the faint scent of…
A deep inhale came up with an answer. “Sugar cookies.”
Perhaps it was just his imagination, but Scott swore each of Emily’s letters carried with them aromas from her kitchen. Past correspondences with their aromatic hints of pastries and sweetbreads allowed him visions of the lovely chef sitting at a flour-dusted table, penning his letter while her latest culinary creation baked in the oven.
A spontaneous growl of hunger lifted an eyebrow. It appeared the saying a way to a man’s heart is through his stomach had been confirmed. Lengthening shadows also suggested he best move it along or he’d be missing Maria’s contribution to good eating.
My dear Mr. Lancer,
Enduring my hugs of gratitude and tears of relief, I’m certain the errand boy from our telegraph office reported back to his employer that the Arcade Hotel chef has gone quite mad. Although the lad would like to thank you for the large slice of yellow cake he received for his delivery of your telegram. He mentioned the amount of vanilla in the chocolate frosting was just right.
As newspapers described Jupiter’s horrific accident, I held on to the hope you’d missed boarding the train, but deep down I knew this wasn’t true. You’re a punctual gentleman who takes pride in his perfect timing.
Scott smiled while remembering a perfectly timed kiss during his last evening in Sacramento.
The joy of reading your telegram helped balance my sadness when, shortly after, the illustration of train survivors fell into my hands. Dearest Scott, no one deserves what you and your travel companions experienced.
Rumors spoke of the notoriety the Auburn artist had gained for his rendering of Scott, Kinsey and Seth as three of those survivors. With his drawing appearing in newspapers as far as London and Paris, he’d shown American sensationalism walked on water. Frowning, Scott also confirmed the gentleman’s exploiting talent could still stir up feelings of anger and frustration.
“I know, Winnie. I’ve traveled around the sun enough with this one.” Like a Father Fetterman sermon, it needed to end.
I must close before over-baked sugar cookies resemble hardtack - a dessert possibly appreciated on a cattle drive, but not in a hotel dining room.
Please send my regards to Miss Furlong. Her invitation was a pleasant surprise.
Wait. What?
I look forward to sharing in her day of celebration. I hope the best man saves a dance for me.
Fondly yours,
Emily
“Her invitation was a pleasant surprise?”
Miss Providence had returned.