Scribings, Vol 6: Regatherings

By Jamie Alan Belanger

For as long as our species has existed, humans have always been social creatures. We gather around campfires and tables, sharing meals and stories. Somewhere inside this greater narrative lies a long string of tales that come full circle. People meet, and part, and then at some point they meet again. It seems inevitable, as if this conjunction of lives was always meant to be.

In this volume, the Greater Portland Scribists explore these bonds. Whether trying to save a childhood retreat from corporate interests, reuniting with old friends, returning home for a final goodbye, or trying to cope with a dear one who won't depart, these tales are about the twisting journeys of our relationships. Location, context, and pasts are irrelevant--it's the people with whom we connect who help shape our experience on this world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lost Luggage Studios, LLC
• Release date: Dec 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781936489275

Jamie Alan Belanger

Jamie Alan Belanger started programming computers when he was about six years old. He earned a bachelor's degree from the University of South Florida in Computer Science with a minor in Mathematics. He currently devotes all of his time to Lost Luggage Studios, where he is a programmer, writer, editor, publisher, graphic artist, photographer, and more. In short, Jamie is a workaholic who is rarely more than two days away from having a meaningful conversation with his toaster. His hobbies include WW2 and computer history, artificial intelligence theory, cooking, beer, nature, photography, and designing worlds he'd rather live in.

Book preview

Acknowledgments

Cover photograph by Otto Klingspor

Interior glyph artwork by Josiah Orm Hansen

Cover art uses the free fonts Vera Humana 95 by BX Fonts and Josh Handwriting by Josh Williams

Introduction:

Regatherings

by Jamie Alan Belanger

For as long as our species has existed, humans have always been social creatures. We gather around campfires and tables, sharing meals and stories. We build, we instruct, we entertain, and we share... all that we are, all we could be, and sometimes we even share things that could never be. The constant in the strands of our lives is that we do all these things together. Even those who choose to walk their own paths through life—seemingly alone—are still contributing to the greater story of our joint lives.

Somewhere inside this greater narrative lies a long string of tales that come full circle. People meet, and part, and then at some point they meet again. It seems inevitable, as if this conjunction of lives was always meant to be. Perhaps the person you met yesterday will return to your life in a strange way in a future you will share. He or she could become a mentor, a student, a spouse, the technician who fixes your car, or the waiter who serves your food. Part of the allure of these reconnections is the mystery of what could have been, should both have noticed their link the first time around. Or, the reconnection is just a natural progression of a familial bond that grew apart; an estranged child returns home to parents, or siblings long parted gather once more, or friends who haven't seen each other in years gather together to share memories.

No matter the context, the rekindling of old bonds is a healing act that soothes aches from the past and helps pave the way to our collective future. In this, our sixth installment of original short fiction, the Greater Portland Scribists explore these bonds. Whether trying to save a childhood retreat from corporate interests, reuniting with old friends, returning home for a final goodbye, or trying to cope with a dear one who won't depart, these tales are about the twisting journeys of our relationships. Location, context, and pasts are irrelevant—it's the people with whom we connect who help shape our experience on this world.

Regathering once more with those people illustrates how much we each have grown and changed in the interim; or, in the case of some, how much we have not changed...

Frog pond

Topia

by Timothy Lynch

Have you ever felt like you've had help from beyond? Not just a lucky roll, like double sixes when you wanted them, but a true helping hand, keeping you from walking down the wrong path, making you choose one door and not the other? Adam had such an experience. Later, he would sit in his cracked leather chair, shake his head, and realize what almost wasn't.

* * *

Must be logging trucks, said Thomas Cass, closing agent for Border Real Estate.

It feels more like an earthquake, said Denise Mantor, attorney for the West Sodus Land Trust.

Adam waited for the trucks to go by, so he could continue signing the closing documents. The desk shook to such an extent he couldn't write.

What do you expect? This is Maine. The logs won't move themselves, Thomas said. He returned his attention to Adam. Only one more batch to sign.

Denise looked on, chatting with the Town Attorney, William Blake.

He signed the last page with a flourish. Is it over? Adam asked.

All we need now is the conservation easement, Denise said from across the table. Get ready, Adam. You, Mr. Blake, and I will be working on it, starting on the first of the month.

* * *

It was six months ago that Adam went to the Town of West Sodus, with a proposal of joint ownership involving some special piece of land. It had been his great grandfather's and was thirty miles from the New Hampshire border in West Sodus, Maine. Dad-up-home, his great-grandfather, had purchased the unusual crater-shaped hundred acres thinking he might start a park or something. His great-grandmother, Mom-up-home, had, according to family lore, suggested Utopia as a name for the property. She saw it as a precious place—like no other—where people could be immersed in nature. But Dad-up-home, firmly entrenched in reality, believed utopias—that is: places that were 'no place'—did not exist, therefore his property could not be one. Topia, he would say, "a place that actually is."

Thomas Cass zipped his down jacket. I don't think I've ever seen a face as happy as yours at a closing. Congratulations!

Thank you, sir. Thanks so much! In his heart, Adam hoped his great-grandfather would have been pleased with the deal. Again the building shook.

After the closing, he couldn't wait to get to the property. He drove to his apartment complex to pick up his wife, Janelle, and his daughter, Olivia. He breezed through complaints from Olivia about putting on boots and a hat, and Janelle's insistence that the sink be cleared and cleaned before they left. He was simply too happy to let anything take away his feeling of—what was it? Relaxation? Peace? They piled into their used Prius. It had a fifty-pound bag of sand in the trunk to help with traction; it was Maine, in winter, after all.

Topia had been a wonderland for Adam growing up. Dad-up-home would sit on a bench with his drink, while Dad and Grandad walked the property. Decaying logs hid wriggling salamanders and wood frogs. A golden field where diving swallows swooped and twittered covered the north side of the property. It was a place where Adam might look closely at a leafy bush and find a prickly praying mantis or a delicate Luna moth, waiting for nightfall. In the late spring, Adam often saw the black-orange flash or heard the teeter teeter ter ter of an oriole.

The Prius rolled to a stop on a road overlooking the property, and Adam turned off the car. Memories flooded his head. He stared down at a stream running through the property, from the car window. He remembered younger days, pulling up cattails on the stream-bank, making them aerodynamic with small clumps of earth weighting the ends. Dad-up-home would sit and watch with his binoculars. To Adam, it had looked like they were resting on his formidable reddish-white mustache. Meanwhile, he vanquished imagined monsters and lorded over all he saw.

Exiting the car, he searched for the topography of his youth. Next to the stream rose the big hill they called Roundtop. But with everything covered in snow, other features were impossible to identify. Still, he knew it was all there, under the cold fluffy blanket.

So, what's the plan, Mister McHenry? Janelle said, bringing him back to present, her voice encouraging and a bit nervous. He glanced at her steadfast hands holding Olivia's shoulders.

He'd put Janelle through a lot by being the first to go to grad school. She had agreed to it, but still, it had been a gamble. She could've found a job more easily than him as a physics teacher, but his job as an environmental planner would bring in more money sooner. At least that's what he had argued. Adam thought Janelle wanted a family as much as a career. He told himself that idea over and over—and it seemed to be true. But he knew one thing: He had gotten his way on grad school, so now it was up to him to provide for them. Could it be that their plan was happening? It seemed it was.

Well, with any luck, the Trust will help us with trails and maybe, eventually, a main visitor center. Our own house we'll have to build ourselves, he said.

Look at that big hill! said Olivia.

That's a great ol' hill!, said Adam. We called it Roundtop. Nothin' better than to sit up there and watch the world like a king!

Or a princess! said Olivia.

Or a princess! said Adam.

I can't wait to make desserts in the kitchen! Janelle said with whimsy. When I'm not giving tours.

And I can help in the Tapioca Room, Olivia said.

Close, Honey, it's called 'Topia'.

That's what I said, Daddy, Tapioca! Adam imagined the word Tapioca hanging on a sign above his rustic lunch place.

Face it, Adam; it's fate! said Janelle.

It's fate, Daddy! Olivia repeated.

Adam gave a broad grin as he looked at his daughter. I guess it is, Honey... if we don't name the place 'Tapioca,' at the very least we can serve it!

* * *

The same week, a builder in Connecticut sat in the Offices of Dell & Smith Associates, looking for some help finding construction jobs.

What assets are you willing to sign over to us? Robert Dell Jr. asked from behind a wide cherry desk.

You're kiddin' me! Assets? John Darling laughed and shook his head.

You've got a few fines on your record, Mr. Darling. If we're both being honest, those aren't the only shortcuts you've made lately, right? Robert Dell Jr. could slice with words, if he wanted to. It so happened, he wanted to.

Mr. Darling wiped his forehead and a deep ridge grew between his brows. After pausing, he relented and spoke.

I have earth movers, trucks, a few properties, Mr. Darling answered with his arms crossed, then thought better of it, and moved his arms to a more natural position.

Where are the properties? asked Robert Dell Jr.

I have a few in Connecticut, the rest are in Mass.

Size?

What's that? Mr. Darling asked.

How big are the properties? Robert Dell Jr. enunciated, then sighed, tapping a gold colored pen into his palm.

One to ten acre lots.

Commercial or residential?

One commercial, and thirteen fully developed residentials. Robert Dell Jr. stood and walked around his office—for effect.

DSA is a major commercial company. I'm not sure we're on the same page, Mr. Darling.

Listen, Mr. Darling said, reaching out as if his wrists were shackled. I'm sure you could convert the residentials into quaint little shops. With DSA backing, I'd do it myself! Some have zoning issues, sure, but you guys can deal with that sort of thing, right?

We like visibility and prestige. Craft stores don't give us a reason to act, said Robert Dell Jr.

Listen, Mr. Darling barked. "I wouldn't be here if someone had backed me up on my golden goose! I could've had luxury places overlooking... who knows what! A hundred acre valley with a local water source. I lost my down payment, the subcontract, everything!"

I'm sorry to hear that. I wish you had contacted us sooner.

Yeah, sure!

Good luck to you, Mr Darling, Robert Jr. said, standing next to Mr. Darling's chair and offering his hand. Perhaps if you find another opportunity?

Robert Dell Jr. escorted Mr. Darling to the lobby, then casually walked into his older brother Paul's office and shut the door.

Just heard about a recent sale on a hundred acres. Overlooks and a natural water source.

So.

Guy bet his livelihood for it and lost, no backers.

Maybe there was a reason there were no backers, Paul said, editing remarks to a speech.

Maybe he's an amateur, Robert said, hands on his hips.

Maybe it's wrapped up, Paul said in a dismissive tone.

Only one way to find out. Look it up!

I'm in the middle of something, here; you look it up.

Okay then, Mr. Computer, he said, leaning on his brother's desk to get to the keyboard. One hundred acres, plus overlooks, plus water... I see four-thousand-odd properties. I'll narrow to the last five years.

Where is this guy from? Paul asked, his mind distracted by the new problem.

Connecticut. But he also has properties in Massachusetts. Now the computer says 221.

Narrow to New England—wait. One hundred acres, water source, overlooks and nobody knows about it? It's in Maine. It's gotta be in Maine! Listen, we only act if it's a goddamn diamond!

Vacationland it is! Four hits. Hmmm. His eyes scanned the screen. Bingo! A hundred acres sold to a land trust. You always were brilliant.

So, you finally noticed. Check out the pics; is it a diamond? asked Paul. Robert Dell Jr. scrolled through the images.

It's a golden goose!

Robert stared at the screen. Should we try to buy them off?

Buy them off? A Trust? These are do-gooders, you can't buy off do-gooders, brother. You have a lot to learn. Let me think about it. We'll come up with something... effective.

* * *

In April of the next year, Adam met with the head of the board, Timothy Gagne of The West Sodus Land Trust, to see what kind of help they were willing to give him. It was clear they would be there every step of the way. And Timothy Gagne made sure Adam understood the property would be an equal partnership of the town, Adam, and the Trust. It would be opened to the public and donations collected. Adam was fine with that; in fact, he thought Dad-up-home would have liked it, since that was his idea too.

Adam found he had little skill at park design and was disappointed he couldn't find a good place for a frog pond. Janelle told him to worry about more important things than a frog pond.

By June he was working in and around Sanford, volunteering for Eco-spaces for Humanity, a new non-profit with a growing reputation for constructing eco-housing. He worked for them in the morning, learning carpentry skills and such, then drove out to Topia and walked his property in the evening, tying double knots on tree branches with strips of colored cloth, indicating future trails.

The afternoon was devoted to the business of running the property: reading environmental regulations on setbacks and construction, calling the town planning office, setting up accounts, considering disability issues, and attending meetings on the conservation easement with Denise. It was constant. By the end of the day, his body was exhausted.

He arrived home to their second-story rental after a 45-minute drive from Topia, trudged his rubbery legs up the stairs, and ate a late dinner, lounging in his cracked leather chair, while chatting with Janelle and Olivia.

I was thinking of marking the trails by the number of minutes it takes to complete them, remarked Adam.

What if I'm a fast walker, or a slow one? asked Janelle.

That's true, maybe I should walk the trail fast, medium, and slow, then use the average.

You're thirty-five and in good shape. What if your average isn't all that average?

I could get my dad to walk it. He's average-minus right?

I'll walk a trail for you, Daddy! said Olivia. I'm a fast walker!

You're a good helper! Thanks, Honey, said Adam.

Well, we could measure the trail then divide by the average walking speed of a human, offered Janelle.

Or we could ask the first few walkers how long it took, Adam said, making a joke. He and Janelle looked at each other and laughed.

Works for me! they said in unison.

* * *

Outside of Sanford, on the Eco-spaces for Humanity build, Adam shifted to hanging out with the chimney builders. He needed experience working with masonry, because the plans for their house called for a central fireplace as the main source of heat. He would need a lot of help building something as complex as a chimney. He offered a coffee to the masonry foreman, a young builder named Peter Smith, who slid a box of doughnut holes toward Adam.

Okay, Peter started, as a few workers gathered round. It's all about the base. If the base is level, the rest of the chimney stands a chance!

Glenn, a familiar shadow on the eco projects, crossed Adam's visual field. Adam! he called out. You're my saw guy, Dude. I need you! Adam felt his face redden with his minor betrayal.

He's with me now, Glenn! Peter said, raising his voice.

Everyone steals my workers! said Glenn.

Learn to tell better jokes! Peter said with a laugh.

I'll make it up to you, Glenn, Adam offered, but Glenn just waved an arm in dismissal.

Okay, I'll need a plumb, a level, and a tube of water, Peter said. Let's build a chimney!

* * *

By July, Adam had raked two big trails. One ran along the stream, then swooped up a small arc to the top of Roundtop. The other was oddly shaped, weaving around existing trees for about a hundred yards, ending at some pieces of bedrock jutting upward from the dirt.

Roundtop was about double the height of two apple trees that grew at its base. It looked as though it must have been higher at one point, because the top was sheared-off, making a round, flat area about fifty feet in diameter on the top. Roundtop wasn't all that high, but Adam knew that it gave a nice view. Currently overgrown, trees and weeds stuck up like hair on the top. Topia was always a favorite destination for Adam growing up. The most recent owner had built a small pavilion on the top, which, Adam thought, would be great for picnicking—and would serve as an excellent castle for kids.

He was able to check off an earlier chore, picking up a miniature garbage can at a flea market, and having a welder alter it to store donations.

At the eco-build, Adam kept his word to Glenn and helped him out on the saw when Peter had too many volunteers. Adam and Glenn always had good talks while they worked, and soon the conversation turned to Topia.

That night, Adam was spooning mashed potatoes next to a small pile of corn and passed the plate to Olivia. I was talking to Glenn about our project, mentioning all the work that needs to be done, and guess what?

What? Janelle and Olivia both said.

"I have to admit, I was surprised, but he said 'I thought you got enough exercise working for