So the invitation to the luncheon was welcome. Contacts made there might open up a new source of “Qwill Pen” material.
Nell was saying, “You’re going to love Bruce’s story. He’s told it only twice, I think, outside the family, so it will be more or less an exclusive for your book. When do you expect to have it published?”
“As soon as I have enough tall tales to make a decent showing—not just ‘a slender volume,’ as the reviewers say.” He was trying not to stare above Nell’s head; there was a cuckoo clock on the foyer wall.
“Will it be illustrated?” she asked.
“That possibility hasn’t been discussed as yet, but it would help flesh out the volume and add to its desirability.”
“I’ve done illustrating for magazines and would like to submit samples.”
“By all means, do it!” Qwilleran said with sincerity.
The doctor came hurrying from his study. “Sorry about the delay. Full speed ahead—to the Black Bear Café! It’s my treat.”
“I’ll drive,” Qwilleran said. As they pulled away, he added, “Pleasant neighborhood here. Any problem with squirrels?”
“Not since we frustrated them by putting power lines and cables underground. And notice that the trees are away from the house. There’s a brook back there and some fine black walnuts. They like proximity to water . . . so we have the problem licked. Until next week! Then their engineering minds will figure out a solution. There’s nothing like a squirrel for keeping you humble!”
Qwilleran said, “Andy Brodie tells me you’re a fourth-generation doctor.”
“And proud of it! My great-grandfather arrived on a sailing vessel from Canada in the early days of lumbering here. It was dangerous work. Axes, saw blades, falling trees and murderous fistfights took their toll. Every community had a sawmill, a rooming house and an undertaker who built pine coffins. And there were a lot of amputations in those days. The term ‘Dr. Sawbones’ was no joke. As families moved in, there were children’s diseases and the perils of childbirth. Visit an old cemetery, and you’ll be amazed at the number of women who died in their twenties. My grandfather—second generation—made house calls on horseback and did surgery by lamplight in homes that weren’t very clean. My father had an office in his front parlor, and patients came to him. He not only treated their ailments but tried to educate them about health and hygiene.”
The Black Bear Café was in the town of Brrr, so named because of a sign writer’s slip-of-the-brush.
Since it was the coldest spot in the county, the townfolk relished the humor of the mistake and enjoyed the distinction of a place-name without a vowel. The town was on a bluff overlooking a fine natural harbor, and on the crest was an old hotel dating from the lumbering era. Architecturally it was in the shoebox style—plain, with many small windows. Its notable feature was a sign that ran the length of the roof, announcing ROOMS . . . FOOD . . . BOOZE. The letters were large enough to be seen for miles, and it was a favorite hangout for boaters, who nicknamed it the Hotel Booze.
Gary Pratt was the present owner, a young man with a lumbering gait and shaggy black beard. It was no wonder the café bore the name it did. When he acquired a mounted black bear as official greeter at the entrance, the picture was complete. Added to the restaurant’s attractions was its famous “bear burger,” considered the best ground-beef sandwich in the county. Certainly it was the largest.
“What’s the Abernethy clan connection?” Qwilleran asked when they had taken seats in a booth.
“Leslie of Aberdeenshire, dating back to the thirteenth century. Nell likes me to wear the kilt. Why don’t we promote a Scottish Night at the Nutcracker Inn?”
“Andy could play the bagpipe,” Qwilleran suggested.
“My daughter could dance the Highland Fling.”
Bruce ordered a glass of red wine, and Qwilleran ordered coffee. Both said they would have burgers—but not right away. They had business to discuss.
Qwilleran produced his tape recorder, and the doctor recounted a story that was later transcribed as “The Little Old Man in the Woods.”
When I was eleven years old, we were living in a wooded area outside Fishport, and behind our property was the forest primeval—or so I thought. It was a dense grove of trees that had a sense of mystery for an eleven-year-old. I used to go there to get away from my younger siblings and read about flying saucers. A certain giant tree with a spreading root system above ground provided comfortable seating in a kind of mossy hammock.
I would sneak off on a Saturday afternoon with the latest science fiction magazine—and a supply of pears. You see, the early French explorers had planted pear trees up and down the lakeshore. To own “a French pear tree” was a mark of distinction. We had one that was still bearing luscious fruit. Before leaving on my secret Saturday reading binge, I would climb up into the tree and stuff my shirtfront with pears. Then I’d slink away into the forest.
One day I was lounging between the huge roots of my favorite tree and reading in pop-eyed wonder about the mysteries of outer space, when I heard a rustling in the tree above me. I looked up, expecting a squirrel, and saw a pair of legs dangling from the mass of foliage: clunky brown shoes, woolly brown knee socks, brown leather breeches. A moment later, a small man dropped to the ground—or rather floated to earth. He was old, with a flowing gray moustache, and he wore a pointed cap like a woodpecker’s, with the brim pulled down over his eyes. Most amazingly, he was only about three feet tall.
I wanted to say something like: Hello . . . Who are you? . . . Where did you come from? But I was absolutely tongue-tied. Then he began to talk in a foreign language, and I had seen enough World War II movies to know it was German.
Now comes the strangest part:
I knew what he was saying!
His words were being interpreted by some kind of mental telepathy. He talked—in a kindly way—and I listened, spellbound. The more I heard, the more inspired and excited I became. He was talking about trees! That the tree is man’s best friend . . . It supplies food to eat, shade on a sunny day, wood to burn in winter, boards to build houses and furniture and boats . . . The greatest joy is to plant a tree, care for it, and watch it grow. What he did not say was something I had learned in schooclass="underline" That trees purify the air and contribute to the ecology of the planet!
Then, before I knew it, he was gone! But I had changed! I no longer wanted to be an astronaut; I wanted to grow trees!
I ran home with my two remaining pears and my magazines, which no longer interested me.
My father was in his study. “What is it, son? You look as if you’ve had an epiphany.” He was always using words we didn’t know, expecting us to look them up in the dictionary. I’m afraid I never did.
With great excitement I told him the whole story. To his credit as a parent, he didn’t say I had fallen asleep and dreamed it—or I had eaten too many pears—or I had read too many weird stories. He said, “Well, son, everything the old fellow said makes sense. If we don’t stop destroying trees without replacing them, Planet Earth will be in bad trouble. Why don’t you and I do something about it? We’ll be business partners. You find a forester who’ll give us some advice about tree farming. I’ll supply the capital to buy seedlings. And you’ll be in charge of planting and maintenance.”
My father was a wise man. One thing led to another, and I became a partner in his medical clinic, just as he had been my partner in growing trees. But that’s not the end of the story. In med school I studied German as the language of science, and that’s where I met my future wife. We went to Germany on our honeymoon—to practice our second language. I particularly wanted to visit the Black Forest.