— Ralph Waldo Emerson (via thatkindofwoman)
— Ishmael Reed, probably
— Sam Shepard, from a letter to John Dark, October 14th, 1999
Some level on a scale of Three Musketeers was breached today amongst my brother and my son and myself.
An A.A. Milne level of adventure with a dash of Scooby Doo.
My brother had sunglasses and a flagon of local rye. My son had an adventure bag packed with compass, paper, pencils, handbook, and reference book. I had granola, fruit punch, road maps, sunglasses, and a harmonica.
We set North along State Road, past the charcoal husk of the house where I once lighted incense and listened to The Cure’s Disintegration one rare dry night in late July a couple of chapters ago. Past the rusting scraps and poisoned soil of the oil refinery shuttered as part of the long con to crimp supply and raise gasoline prices and maximize profits for the tycoons. Past the ruins of the sugar beet factory built in 1899 and decommissioned in 1924. Over the river nearing flood stage and downtown to the Scottish pub for meat and mead.
Now fortified we set about the treasure map. My son drew the surroundings on a sheet of 98lb 9x12 with a dotted line indicating our path to the abstruse reserve of abundant capital. Bounty was recovered and we forded the river again to investigate the sugar beet ruins. In thirty years, should any of us remember the abstracts of this day, they will most likely additionally recall the particular detail of a time constraint: though it was a perfect day for factory ruin investigation a decision was made against such an adventure because we didn’t posses the time required to breach the secure wall and climb down and through the empty canal labyrinth and into the works.
Instead we headed into the neighboring town and the mansions built in the mid 1800s along the Pine River for the lumber barons and oil barons and dealers of healing mineral water cures. We passed the Cook mansion, four stories with a turret and secret tunnels, and stopped at the three story haunted mansion with three graves in the backyard. Stories of apparitions and noises encountered on youthful explorations. Resumed tour past the chemical disaster and the peeling yellow paint on homes nearby. Old haunts with varying degrees of real and imagined haunting.
On the final freeway portion of our adventure through this perplexing area the conversation was muted and focused on the physics behind and style of time travel and all the paradoxical machinations pertaining thereto.
I felt a quiet moment and a negligible awareness that I’d been on these roads forever and will always be retracing their diagonal path over swollen river and along fallow field.