Old Writing

There is a certain timelessness that seems to stitch together this southern tip of land. A gray light shines on the little tin roofs every morning, waking the young men beneath them, and turns golden by the time they are greeting each other by the coffeepot, and is hot and yellow by the time they are eating their eggs. Every morning it is the same, and every morning the young men speak the same words to each other.

Morning, says M to Hans.

What's Happening, he says back.

Oh nothing, he replies quietly.

They let silence settle over the first part of the ritual.

Big things today, Hans says, with a hint of suspense.

Are we picking oranges, asks M, and Hans proceeds to articulate the tactics and new obstacles that will transform the orchard into a battlefield, but M only nods occasionally, listening to his eggs hiss in the skillet.

The grey light turns golden, and the birds greet each other with the same words as the men below them, only in more erudite, nasal language. It happens this way every morning, and it always ha, even before there was anyone to write it down.

The men walk up the road, half a mile form the little tin houses to the big wooden one. They walk on a dirt path through a rusting iron gate, cracked for their admittance. They walk past rows of high pine trees, standing like sentinels along the edge of the orchard, and past heaps of strange antiquated machinery, all being painted the same idle brown by the mingling of iron and air.

What do you suppose that big one with the hovel is for, Taft asks, looking for a hook on which to hang a question.

Oh that right there is a terrestrial boar, Hans replies. Yeah, that's what they call it in the mining towns, he says thoughtfully. Everyday that he walked past the machine he added another stitch to his story, weaving a lure large enough or Taft or one of the boys to hook on to. He had hundreds of these tapestries stowed away in his mind for other objects.

How do you suppose Mort came by it? Taft asked.

Won it off a poker hand with a cane planter from up the road. Some folks say the mead he was pouring for him had something to do with it, Hans said without hesitation. Course that's a whole nother story. They let silence eat the rest of the details.

What's mead, Taft asked.

Jesus Christ, don't you know anything about the world? Hans asked. Mike, why don't you explain to him, he said resignedly.