She remembers the first day of kindergarten, when kindly old Mrs. Charles said to all the other kids — because Heather’s mother had forgotten to pack her a lunch until the last minute and as a result Heather was the very last to arrive in class—“Children, I’d like you to meet Heather.” And Mrs. Charles had said it with such happiness in her scratchy old voice that it felt as if the old lady teacher had always known Heather but hadn’t seen her for a long, long time, and now here she was. It felt to Heather as if Mrs. Charles was blowing a fresh breath straight from the outdoors into every corner of that classroom, a little puff of air that was contained inside her own name, Heather, as if she herself were hearing it for the first time. But by the time she got to the sixth grade, her name had worn itself down to Heather-Whatever.
Sometimes Heather dips the arrowroot crackers in tea (she likes Earl Grey) and sometimes she eats them on the side and uses the tea to wash down the crumbs, because, she has to admit, they are pretty dry. Tonight she’s dipping them, and the hot tea feels good on her throat, which is sore from talking on the phone to maniacs and psychopaths all day.
If only there was someone else she could talk to. There’s Raymond, of course — he’s strange, true enough, but he also seems kind of sweet in the way that makes a girl feel safe.
To the St. Nils Eagle
Dear Editors,
I was disappointed last week after reading your account of the Southside Archery and Crossbow competition to find that although the scores for various “traditional” bows were reported in some detail, the crossbow results, either through deliberate omission or simple error, were missing.
Unless you step up the standards of your reporting to include all the news, you should know this current subscriber will not remain so indefinitely. Let this be a warning.
Yours Truly,
A Seeker of Truth
And then there is also casi tocándose: almost touching.
IV
Oh five dropouts came to farm one day
To grow some pot and also hay
Because the rest of the world was in an uptight way
Except for Grandpa Stoner
— an excerpt from the theme song to Mellow Valley
As long as the Captain can remember, there has never been a day in which a part of him was not prepared to die right then and there on the spot, wherever that spot might be, but of course, in varying degrees. For example, on an average day, maybe up to thirty or forty percent of him would be just as happy to call the whole thing — what one of his old first mates, Steig, used to call this “hollow charade”—over and done. In other words: Good-bye. So long. That’s it, friends; I’m out of here. On a very good day, the percentage might go down to about five or ten, but on a bad one, it could shoot up to eighty or ninety. Today, just for the record, on his way to the lecture he’s supposed to give, he would peg things at about twenty-three — not too bad. He calls this his “Death Quotient,” and in the past, whenever he found himself in a tough situation, one where daring and sacrifice were called for, a high Death Quotient gave him an edge.
In the first episode of Mellow Valley, Mom, Dad, and Junior, their teenage son, find themselves stopped on the edge of a small midwestern town after their VW bus breaks down on their way to attend a rally in Washington, DC, to protest the Vietnam War. The family is dressed in a variety of seventies outfits: Norm, the dad, wears a fringed jacket and puka shell necklace. The mom, Judy, is in a granny dress and headband. The teenager, Junior, is in bell-bottoms and sports a vest covered with peace buttons. Hearing that the repairs to the bus will take a few hours, the family decides to wait in the local diner, where they are intently ignored by the waitress and the rest of the customers. This enrages the usually peaceful Norm, and Judy, exhausted by the stresses of this trip, begins to weep. “This is all a tragic mistake,” she tells Junior, who is trying to pretend he does not know his parents. “Do you think there is any chance at all that we were right to intervene in Southeast Asia?”
Finally, a grizzled old farmer, a person who believes in giving everyone a fair shake despite their appearances, stands up and, leaving his booth in the corner, where he’s been nursing a cup of coffee, walks to the counter and orders a whole deep-dish apple pie.
“Put it on my tab,” he tells the waitress, Ellie. Then he takes the pie back to his booth, where, pulling out a jackknife with a staghorn handle, he divides it into quarters. Next he opens a leather bag on the seat next to him and extracts a dirty block of cheddar, which he slices into four gigantic chunks. After placing a piece of cheese on each slice of pie, he walks over to the table, where Judy, having used up nearly a whole dispenser’s worth of napkins on her tears, has finally started to settle down.
“Why don’t you all come on over and join me? It seems as if some folks in this here town have done forgot their manners,” he says, looking around.
The family is happy to have the pie — the cheese, too. In the course of eating, Norm confides to the man, whose name is Grandpa Stoner, that instead of driving from one futile peace rally to the next, he would much rather find a plot of land and get back to the primal vibrations of the earth. He asks Grandpa Stoner if he knows of any farms in the area that might be available to rent. Grandpa Stoner takes his time thinking about it, finishes off his piece of pie and cheese, and calls for more coffee, which Ellie, shamed by the old man’s actions, brings to Norm, Judy, and Junior “on the house.”
It’s possible, Grandpa Stoner says, if they are serious and they can pass a credit check, that he personally might be willing to rent out his own farm to them. “I’m getting a little too old for sowing and harvesting,” he says, “but if you folks care to try it out, I could hang around for a while to show you the ropes. After that, well, we’ll just see what happens.”
Everyone agrees this is a good idea. The VW bus is fixed and, as they follow Grandpa Stoner’s dusty pickup out to his place, Norm spots a pair of hitchhikers trying to get a ride. He pulls off the road and introduces himself. They are a young girl named Heather and a former member of the Special Forces, Sergeant Moody, who is struggling to forget the horrible things he did to various villagers he came into contact with in South Vietnam. The Sergeant asks if, by any chance, they might have room on their farm for an old soldier.
Judy looks at him. “You’re not that old,” she tells him, “certainly not compared to Grandpa Stoner, and your hair is a lot better than Norm’s.” She goes on to say that although they haven’t seen the farm as yet, it sounds as if they’ll have a lot of room, so he’s welcome. Heather, who is returning from an unsuccessful audition as an underwear model, asks if there’s room for her, too. She explains that she’s sick of the shallow values of today’s society, and longs for something more spiritual and meaningful than the mindless displays of her breasts and buttocks she’s experienced in the past. To the delight of Junior, Norm says yes.