Perfect Understanding

By Richard L. Robbins

PERFECT UNDERSTANDING

“There is a cult of ignorance in the United States, and there has always been. The strain of anti-intellectualism has been a constant thread winding its way through our political and cultural life, numbed by the false notion that my ignorance is just as good as your knowledge.” Isaac Asimov, the villain in this novel is ignorance, the hero is understanding.

A frontier is defined as “an unsettled region, an extreme part of a country” statistically a frontier is an area having no fewer than two inhabitants per square mile. It took a lot more than just farming to settle a land, there was also a necessity for a social evolution. The advantages of a new start in life, free land, freedom to follow a dream without fear of interruption etc. also had its disadvantages, no churches, no schools, no libraries, even local governments had to be formed.

This story takes place on the Ohio frontier in the last of the eighteenth and midway through the nineteenth centuries. The main characters are an eighteen-year old lad that is intelligent enough to know he needs more intelligence and an elderly gentleman, with a great degree of intelligence that has no outlet for it. A partnership is formed and frustrations are laid aside as the two men declare a war on ignorance. It’s a joy to see a young man grow in intelligence and an older man achieve his lifetime imaginings. Both men come to the same conclusion, that understanding is the salvation of the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 6, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796050769

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Mr. Bulkely

I loved everything about living on the edge of civilization. For an eighteen-year-old, to be able to live in the wilderness and have an unlimited amount of land with abundant wildlife and a thousand and one discoveries just waiting to be unearthed, was all one could hope for. Unlimited land suggested limitless possibilities. Living on the frontier offered many advantages to families that were unattainable to them in other ways, free land was by far the greatest of these benefits. We became settlers, and farmed a beautiful parcel of land. The we refers to my family, which consisted of my Father, my Mother and myself. Even with all of these compensations, there was one part of my life still missing, this had to do with the ability to fill an ‘inner passion’ I had acquired, a hunger for intelligence, which had been instilled in me by a mother who shared as much instruction as was available to her at the time.

It didn’t take long to learn that education was not one of the available benefits of the Ohio frontier. The nearest civilization consisted of a general store and a makeshift diner and was a five-hour ride from our farm by buckboard-wagon We had no schools, no churches, no libraries and no hope of further development in the foreseeable future.

The account I’m about to relate is enhanced when you have an idea of the passion I had for learning. I don’t even know why I have such a fixation. It could be that I just love a good story, but I also think it’s because I love to understand everything about life. Others thoughts seemed vital to me. I appreciated the fact that men had taken the time to ponder or meditate and then write on paper their impressions learned from years of observation or study. The stories they tell, and the concepts proposed, filled my unused mind with new insights and I began to understand and perceive more competently what is important in life and what isn’t. When I grasp the intended meanings of words or actions, it helps me to establish proper priorities and thus enjoy life more fully. Personal individuality at the age of eighteen became my goal and information to achieve this, fueled my obsession.

I was taught to read very early in life by my mother, she lamented the fact that we didn’t have enough books to gratify her love for reading. We would often set in front of the fire and mom would tell me stories remembered from books she had once read. Mother taught me to read using the New England Primer, which we had owned for as long as I could remember. The Primer, covered mostly learning phases and taught that teachers must not try to teach a three-year-old how to read, they should wait until the age of five. The Primer began with the alphabet and moved systematically through the different sounds of vowels and consonants, then syllables, then simple words, to more complex words, then sentences. When mother deemed me ready, she introduced me to my first major book, I was about thirteen years of age at the time. Mother’s love for books gave me a reverence for them. Mother could have read this story to me much earlier in life but had determined that my first reading should be almost pristine and unsullied, personalized by me according to my understanding. I examined the outside of the book closely, as though to unearth the basis for the love and esteem mother had for them. I then allowed myself to open the cover. I felt as though I was entering a sacred place and that I should not take the experience lightly. Opening the cover exposed me to a whole new world, one that hadn’t existed in my life as yet. The thoughtfulness of the author, Defoe, to sit down and write this story, allowed me to share the inspirations of a very learned man. It was my first introduction into the world of the learned. When introduced to, Robinson Crusoe, I formed an immediate kinship with him. He had been ship-wrecked and stranded on an island, the farm had seemed somewhat of an island to me, we were isolated and had to fend for ourselves. I was amazed at the story but it was the author, Daniel Defoe, that demanded most of my attention. How could one man know so much about countless subjects and then be able to address them so clearly?

Reading was very slow at first, but my pace increased as I became more familiar with the words, their meanings, and the drift of the story. The account written, exposed me to ideas, points, common sense, wisdom, meanings, and the many facets of life. My desire to learn the fate of Crusoe and Friday, increased by reading time. When I wasn’t working, I was reading. My first book was enough to develop in me a great love for continued reading.

Besides Robinson Crusoe, my family owned only seven other books: the King James Version of the Bible, from which we read daily, my mother always held that this was the greatest book ever written, Samuel Johnson’s Dictionary of the English Language, The New England Primer, the plays Hamlet and Macbeth by William Shakespeare, Principles of Philosophy by Rene’ Descartes, and Paradise Lost, by John Milton. Some of these books were obtained not by choice, but as it turned out, by good fortune. When folks relocated on the frontier they often had to leave behind—because of weight, or space availability—items that weren’t considered necessities: books fell into this category. We sometimes became the fortuitous recipients of their owner’ loss. We would have loved to have had more books—we treasured the ones we owned—but the books were considered a luxury, they were not a priority in most homes, they were also hard to find, and once found their cost was prohibitive, especially when competing with necessities. Other families in the vicinity had a spattering of books, and most all of us were willing to lend or make an exchange of them on occasion. If a new family moved to the area, I was their first greeter, I wanted to be the first to find out if they had any books I hadn’t read as of yet.

I loved each of the books we owned, besides being very enjoyable, they were the only source of my education. I’d kept a record of what I had read to date—some I had read three or four times. I even read the dictionary several times; I just loved the singular message that a word could convey. It was evident to me that each of the books had added a degree of improvement to my life, but at this rate, with only fifteen total books read, including those from neighbors, it would be a long time before much progress would be noticeable in my acquisition of knowledge. It occurred to me that I may never have a use for some of the knowledge I was gaining, however, it seemed that those who gained any degree of intelligence always found ways to use it to their advantage. This was insight I had gained from what little reading I had been exposed to. This dearth of knowledge would soon end and my frontier would become complete.

Dad and I had just visited the general store and were in the buckboard wagon riding home, I’ll forever be amazed at what had just happened. We knew the storekeeper as well as you could know any person on the frontier since you only saw them occasionally. Thought were going through my head faster than it could register them. The thought that seemed to linger was concerning the greatness of this man. I’d heard many stories about men who had accomplished greatness, and now was wondering how many men reach a degree of significance that you and I never hear about. Right here in my own area lived a man that from this time on I would think of as being very consequential, yet my current knowledge of him had communicated to me he was a mere storekeeper.

When we had arrived earlier at the general store, dad had the reins in his hands and I had a book in mine. The storekeeper was sweeping the front steps of the mercantile porch. The first thing he said, even before pleasantries were exchanged, was directed to me, he inquired, What are your reading? I turned the book around and showed him the cover of my old favorite. He said, Robinson Crusoe, I’m impressed, that’s a great book, it looks as though it’s been read a few times.

I answered, This is my sixth time, others have also read it.

You could tell that he was getting on in years, although he wasn’t too worn and had a kind and thoughtful face that invited conversation and exuded intelligence. When I asked him if he had ever read Robinson Crusoe, my intentions of course, would be to loan it to him, he said, I’ve read it enough times to know that I ought to read it again, you can never get all that a good book has to tell you in just a few readings. His statement didn’t seem to be directed for my edification as much as it was a reminder to himself that a person should read a book and ponder it until they had exhausted all of its knowledge.

As dad walked around the store picking up our supplies, the storekeeper just followed and pointed the direction of the next item on the list. All the time he seemed to be a little pensive, as though he was contemplating something and seemed to be totally absorbed. It was as though he was close to making a decision but couldn’t quite come to a final choice. Then he started asking me all kinds of questions, How old are you boy?

I told him I was eighteen, almost nineteen.

Do you go to school?

Well, there’s no school around to go to. Dad in my defense added that I was as smart as any man he had known.

How do you get your smarts?

My mom teaches me the basics and I just read as much as I can.

Do you have a lot to read?

That’s the problem, books are hard to come by.

After a knowing smile, he asked, Do you understand all the Daniel Defoe is trying to tell us in Crusoe?

I asked in reply, Does anyone, do you?

He acknowledged my answer with a little laugh, looked at me with what I interpreted to be approval, and then he retreated back to his pondering manner.

His contemplation seemed to end abruptly and it somewhat startled me when, in an almost urgent manner, he turned to dad and said, Is it all right if I borrow your son for a few minutes?

Dad was not one to have to ask a lot of questions, he seemed to realize that there was something significant in Peter’s asking and said, How long will you be needing him? He told dad that what he wanted to accomplish would only take a few minutes. Dad, goodhumoredly said, Well, that’s about as long as it will take to load these supplies on the wagon.

The storekeeper turned to me and introduced himself as Peter, Peter Bulkely, he said, "Just call me Peter, and beckoned for me to follow him. I got the okay nod from dad. Peter as he preferred to be called, walked toward the back of the store, opened a door and I followed him through it. I was not ready for what I saw. Never in the imagination could one dream up such a vision. The door opened to a room larger itself than the whole front of the store. I had expected to see a small storage area. It wasn’t a room for extra supplies, but a room wonderfully organized with nothing but book cases full of books. My earlier thought to loan him Robinson Crusoe seemed inane at the time.

He looked at me, with what looked like a degree of reverence and told me that I was the first person he had ever brought back to this room. He simply stated, Most people might think me a little odd for what I’ve done, but I think I might have found a kindred spirit in you.

As I looked around it was hard to believe, every shelf was full of books. The only thing that came out of my mouth, after a surveillance of the room, was a continuous slow unbelievable shaking of my head and an almost reverent, long drawn out, breath relieving, Wow.

He said, I was so hoping this would be your reaction. Go ahead now and pick out five books to take home with you today, and when you have read those, comeback and exchange them for five more. He was almost giddy as he went on. It won’t take long for you to see the worth of these books and when that happens, we’ll set down and discuss some ideas I have. How are you called?

My name is Matthew but my parents and friends call me Matt; you can call me Matt. His offer of the books certainly qualified him as a friend.

A moment of time in remembrance usually seems much longer than its actuality, this moment couldn’t be long enough. It seemed that in just that short interlude we had formed a relationship that placed us far beyond mere friends.

Though I had hesitated in unbelief, I didn’t need a second invitation. He watched my every move from that moment on, it was evident that he was enjoying the experience as much as I was. I walked up to one row of books and just let my hand glide softly along the varied bindings. I felt feelings I hadn’t before sensed, and had a thousand unasked questions. Astonishment turned to veneration, to worship and then devotion. He must have had every book ever printed. It was as though just touching the books returned a degree of learning. The knowledge, information, acquaintance, awareness, wisdom, fluency, skills, and intelligence that these books represented bound me to them like new found friends. In less than five minutes I had my five books, Don Quixote, Meditations on First Philosophy, Gulliver’s Travels, One Thousand and One Nights and the Iliad.

Peter took the books from me and gave each his approval as he placed them in a leather satchel designed to protect their value. Handing the satchel back to me, Mr. Bulkely said, If we take good care of our books, they will take good care of us. This seemed, to Mr. Bulkely, to be all the training I needed, the books should be treated with respect.

Without saying anything we turned and walked out; back through the door into the old world, a world totally forgotten about for a while, a world almost devoid of books. I felt as though I was part of a story about to unfold. It seemed as though I was still starving and was leaving a feast behind. I made a personal vow to myself, that with Mr. Bulkelys consent, I would read every book in that room. If I had my way, I wouldn’t even leave until I’d completed that undertaking.

When we came back into the store, Dad seemed impressed with the satchel I was carrying and asked, What have we here? When I told him that Mr. Bulkely had lent me some books to read, he turned directly facing Peter and said in all sincerity, You’ve just made a lifelong friend, this boy would rather read than eat. Thank you for helping to satisfy a hunger in him that I’ve not quite been able to quench. I had no idea that Dad realized how much I liked to read. I knew that on a couple of occasions he had brought me a book back from a trip he had taken. I also knew that it had been a sacrifice for him to do this. I had always loved my dad, and this was just another reason for that love to deepen.

As we started our journey home, Dad, in an off-handed way said, Did Mr. Bulkely have a pretty good stack of books in the back room?

I felt as though I would break a confidence if I tole even my Dad about the room I had seen, I knew I would in time but Mr. Bulkely seemed to have a reason for not making his collection public. I answered, He had quite a few. I, of course wondered why he had so many books, how had he come to possess them, why did he think people would consider him odd for having his collection, and what was his plan for using them? The big question was why had he chosen to share his books with me?

My contemplation was cut short when Peter shouted out as we rode off, "The next time you come plan to sit with me for an hour or so.

I looked at Dad, he said, We’ll make it happen.

I yelled back to Mr. Bulkely, That would be great.

CHAPTER 2

Love of Reading

I didn’t read on the way home; it had been a long time since I had a new book and I didn’t want distractions to interrupt my concentration as I indulged myself in reading. I also like to take the time to read the country as we rode through it, probably even as much as I like reading books. I might see something I would never see again, in fact with this thought still in my mind I saw a beautiful little tree that seemed to be growing right out of a rock. Probably a story within itself, definitely a part of my education. My plan was to get home, finish my chores, have a good dinner and then snug into my bed, turn on my oil lamp and read to my heart’s content. Besides, I had too much on my mind to concentrate properly and wanted time to try and sort out all the questions I had been forming, the ride home would be a good time to do this.

I turned to dad and asked him how well he knew Peter Bulkely. He said that he didn’t know him well, but as a person, he always had a great respect for him. He said, When he first moved into the area, about five years ago, people wondered why he had chosen to build a general store in such a wilderness area. They wondered if he would have enough trade to sustain himself. As far as I know, he never did have a wife or a family. He seemed to know that he would be successful, and when asked why, he would just say, Crossroads, we’re in the center of everything. He still has the only general store in this part of the country and people come from good distances to do business with him.

It’s said that he came from a town in England, it had the same name as his, Bulkely England, located somewhere in the County of Cheshire. I’ve been told that he came from a family of substance. Other than the fact that he is well above the average intelligence, that’s about all I know. Just so you’ll know, I think him a good man, and a person could learn much from him. He seems to have taken a liking to you; I have a feeling that something good will come of this. I had always trusted my dad’s feelings.

Mom was glad to see us when we arrived, a trip to the general store always took a long day, and when you’re rarely apart, even a single day separated seems to be an eternity. After bringing in the supplies I went back out to the buckboard, unhooked the horses, rubbed them down, stalled, watered and fed them, and then gathered up what I now considered my treasured satchel. It was my intent to surprise mom with our unexpected good fortune. Dad had agreed to let me tell the good news. This would bring as much joy to my mother as it brought to me. My love of books only exists because of a mother that has always known their value.

Father and Mother were sitting at the table waiting for my arrival to start dinner. I walked up to the table and with great ceremony laid the book satchel in front of mom. I probably should explain her reaction a little, you see, a woman as giving as my mom, is not used to getting. She had a hard time registering in her mid what had just happened. So many sensations were being felt at one time and she was having a hard time separating them. I opened the satchel and laid the five books in front of her. If the worth of a book can be judged by the reactions it brings to a person, these books may as well have been bricks of gold. She was finally able to ask, but her question could only come out in one word, Where?

Mom had picked up one of the books and was holding it to her breast. Dad walked around to her and placed both hands on her shoulders. This calmed her to a degree, but we knew she wanted to hear the story of the books. Dad nodded and said, Go ahead and tell her Matt. I rehearsed the events of the day and the generosity of Mr. Bulkely, leaving out only the details of the back room. I told her that when I had finished the five books, I was to take them back and get five more.

After much celebration and questioning during dinner, mom seemed to sense an impatience about me and said, You’ll probably want to get started reading. She asked me which book I was going to read first. I had already made that determination, but said, you get the first choice. I knew mom would want to start on a book as I began my reading, I had determined the first choice should go to the person who was responsible for our great love for books. She chose One Thousand and One Nights, which she told us, as she was reading the cover, was a collection of Middle Eastern and South Asian stories and folk tales. More to herself than to us she declared, Can you imagine having one thousand and one stories to read? She walked to a sideboard cupboard, pulled out a drawer and withdrew two beautiful bookmarks. She had made them of lambs hide for just such an occasion. She said, This will help you keep track of your reading without damaging the book." This is just one example of the many simple thing’s woman do to verify their role as mothers.

I chose the Iliad by Homer, I knew very little about the story except that it was one of the oldest existing works of western writing, and that interested me very much. I knew before reading that this book might be a test of my intellect. I had, at one time in my life, come close to owning this book. A peddler that often came through the area had it among his possessions but the cost of eight shillings was far too dear of a price. In plying his wares, he had told me what he knew of the story and I had since wanted to read it. After preparing myself, snuggling into bed, I freed myself of any discomfitures that would interfere with reading. Almost ceremoniously I gathered up my satchel and finding the proper book, prepared it for reading. To my further surprise, while searching the satchel for the book, I found that Mr. Bulkely had included a notebook of fine quality. Attached to the notebook was what I could only assume, having never seen one before, was what I believed to be a pencil. I took the pencil and tested its usefulness by writing my name at the top of the notebook, the results were miraculous. The revelation that now I could become a writer as well as a reader was incredible and took a moment to comprehend.

I opened the cover of the book, admired the words laid out before me, all mine, just waiting to be read. The first couple of sentences were all that it took to draw me into this story. Sing, O goddess, the anger of Achilles son of Peleus that brought countless ills upon the Achaeans. Many a brave soul did it send hurrying down to Hades, and many a hero did it yield a prey to dogs and vultures, for so were the counsels of Jove fulfilled from that day on which the son of Atreus, king of men, and the great Achilles, first fall out with one another. I wrote in the notebook, what is the council of Jove, a question I would at some time ask Peter. A thought came that presented pure joy. "I not only have an abundance of books but a person to clarify them for me."

I’ll have to admit there was much I didn’t understand as I read, but after dissecting sentences not understood and looking up words unfamiliar, I began, with constant reading, to become familiar with Homers writing style and messages. Sentences like, And Alexandrus answered, Hector, your rebuke is just, you are hard as the ax which a shipwright wields at his work, and cleaves the timber to his liking, As the ax in his hand, so keen is the edge of your scorn." painted picture’s that allowed the imagination of the mind to illustrate the story.

Sleep overtook me, but before total surrender, I knelt by my bedside and thanked my God for what I thought only He could have caused to happen.

The morning was full of conversations about our reading, we mainly discussed how late we had read and the enjoyment we had felt. Neither us repeated any of the story we had read, not wanting to ruin the future reading for the other. Dad interrupted us by telling me that we were going to plant five acres of corn today. A quick reckoning let me know that meant working late into the evening, which left very little time for reading.

When you live on a farm, crops take top priority, planning and scheduling the seasons was most important. Even before buying food for survival, monies were allocated for buying seeds. Plant, weeding, watering all had to be completed before anything else could be considered. Nothing took precedence over planting, when it was time, everything was put on hold until it had been accomplished. I never begrudged the work of farming and loved to watch the fields fill with crops. Each ear of corn, each potato, carrot, cabbage or even the little pea represented life to a farmer. To a starving man a pea is a feast. The success of the harvest was the ultimate accomplishment.

Tomorrow would be Saturday; dad chose to only work a half-day on Saturday. Next, to reading, I loved to fish. When you can join fishing, and reading together you have the best of both worlds. A stream with plenty of large holes full of native trout surrounded by large trees that could be used for shade or a backrest, was only a half hour walk from our home.