On the grounds of the Beaune Estate, there is a grand obelisk honoring the men who gave their lives in the Civil War. You can see it out the window of the Beaune Museum, and there are pictures on display.
Robert Beaune went to war as an officer for the Union cause, and rose to the rank of Major in the Engineers. He was the only denizen of Beauneville to so serve; locomotive production was critical to the war effort, Beaune Valves were critical to the production of locomotives, and workmen were critical to the production of Beaune Valves. Auguste and Daisy made repeated visits to Washington, so that Members of Congress and staff of the War Department could be informed about the benefits of the Beaune Valve; they were assisted in these efforts by a bevy of young assistants, all of them female.
Serving in the Military Railway Service, Robert Beaune was largely safe from hostile fire. Of course, the soldiers who actually operated the trains did so at great personal risk. Men died from boiler explosions, derailments and coupling accidents, as well as from unexpected cavalry raids or long-range artillery fire. For an administrator such as Robert, however, the hazards were of a different nature. For example, Washington is quite hot during the summers, and in the days before air conditioning the office buildings were most unpleasant. Refrigeration in those days was not as effective as it is today, depending for the most part on large blocks of ice. Consequently, perishable foods such as oysters were a little less than fresh when served in Washington's fine restaurants, so a working evening with war contractors could be downright dangerous.
As Sherman marched through Georgia, Robert Beaune marched through the brothels of Washington, an activity which, in the absence of antibiotics, was also quite risky.
Finally, almost exactly four years after the guns fired on Fort Sumter, General Lee surrendered to General Grant at Appomatox Court House. Washington celebrated. Major Beaune and a bevy of young female assistants mounted a party wagon headed for Arlington which, regrettably, fell into the Potomac. The ladies were rescued by a party of Zouaves; Robert, unfortunately, was not.
In Beauneville, Auguste Beaune's grief for his eldest son was worsened by Marie-Helenes' constant whining and also by the behavior of his younger son, who appeared to be determined to impregnate every tavernmaid in Dingman's Hat.
His grief, however was largely mitigated by his great wealth, and by Daisy's charms, as well as those of his young female assistants, of which there were two and twenty.
During the War, there had been little progress on the manor house; it remained little more than a foundation. But with the War over, Auguste Beaune determined to finish the place.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Monday, August 30, 2010
Building
Auguste Beaune built his factory on Rose Street, behind the small frame house he built for his family. When the railroad built a line along the Rushing River a few miles to the East, Beaune built a branch line from the factory to Dingman's Hat (the town now known as Stapleton). He christened the line The Beauneville Municipal Railway, and shipped his cider by railway car. Since the railroad tracks ran down the middle of Rose Street, townspeople renamed the street Railroad Avenue. The name stuck.
And indeed, there were townspeople. Skilled craftsmen moved to Beauneville to work in the Beaune Valve Works; to house them, Beaune built small wood-framed cottages on the streets between Main and Railroad. In the next exhibit, you can see a number of black-and-white photographs of the cottages, and some pictures of the factory with workmen posing proudly.
Inspired by Ruskin's Stones of Venice, Beaune also began to plan a grand manor house in Venetian Gothic style to house his own family. In the sketches and architectural drawings on display, you can see the basic elements of the house as it exists today, in the form of a large "H", with two large wings attached to a center section of equal length.
Beaune expected that each of his two sons, their wives and children would occupy the North and South wings of the manor house, respectively, while Beaune, Marie-Helene, Mary and the three daughters would live in the center section.
The eldest son, Robert, was old enough to work in the Valve Works, where he was an exemplary manager. The younger son, John, on the other hand, showed no interest whatsoever in his father's business, instead choosing to race around on horseback and harass the young women of the town. He drank heavily, gambled and constantly got himself into trouble in the taverns of Dingman's Hat.
On an April day, Beaune set aside his concerns about his younger son long enough to lay the first stone of his grand manor house. There was great celebration; all the men employed at the Beaune Valve Works set aside their tools for the day, and apple-growers from throughout Washington County gathered to see the spectacle. There were musicians, and dancing, and copious quantities of apple brandy.
That same day, Confederate batteries fired on Fort Sumter.
And indeed, there were townspeople. Skilled craftsmen moved to Beauneville to work in the Beaune Valve Works; to house them, Beaune built small wood-framed cottages on the streets between Main and Railroad. In the next exhibit, you can see a number of black-and-white photographs of the cottages, and some pictures of the factory with workmen posing proudly.
Inspired by Ruskin's Stones of Venice, Beaune also began to plan a grand manor house in Venetian Gothic style to house his own family. In the sketches and architectural drawings on display, you can see the basic elements of the house as it exists today, in the form of a large "H", with two large wings attached to a center section of equal length.
Beaune expected that each of his two sons, their wives and children would occupy the North and South wings of the manor house, respectively, while Beaune, Marie-Helene, Mary and the three daughters would live in the center section.
The eldest son, Robert, was old enough to work in the Valve Works, where he was an exemplary manager. The younger son, John, on the other hand, showed no interest whatsoever in his father's business, instead choosing to race around on horseback and harass the young women of the town. He drank heavily, gambled and constantly got himself into trouble in the taverns of Dingman's Hat.
On an April day, Beaune set aside his concerns about his younger son long enough to lay the first stone of his grand manor house. There was great celebration; all the men employed at the Beaune Valve Works set aside their tools for the day, and apple-growers from throughout Washington County gathered to see the spectacle. There were musicians, and dancing, and copious quantities of apple brandy.
That same day, Confederate batteries fired on Fort Sumter.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
"I Shall Build A Town"
Move to the next exhibit and you will see a page from Auguste Beaune's diary, with the entry in a large hand: "I shall build a town".
With demand strong for the Beaune Valve, Auguste knew that his small group of craftsmen working in a crowded workshop would not be able to keep up. So he decided to build a factory. But a factory would require workers, and workers would require homes, and there were only a few homes in Cidertown.
So he decided to build a town. And, since Auguste Beaune did not like messy things, it would be a nicely organized town, with perfectly straight streets and rectangular blocks based on classical models.
He laid out the streets of the town on a large piece of paper (which you can see next to the page from his diary), using drafting tools and a big, sharp pencil.
The first problem he encountered was the Cidertown Road, which ambled haphazardly past the mill. With quick strokes of his pencil, Auguste transformed the crooked road to Main Street, straight as a ruler and precisely aligned to the East-West dimension. In so doing, Auguste shifted the center of the town North, to the center of his square tract of land. That is why the oldest buildings in town today, including the Old Cider Mill, are not in the center of town. It's also why the Beaune Estate has such a huge front lawn.
Next, he laid out the streets. He decided that each lot should be two hundred feet deep and one hundred feet wide, with ten lots on each side of the block. Dividing the tract into equal blocks, he determined that there should be twenty-six streets running East and West. He named these streets alphabetically for trees and shrubs, starting with Apple Street on the North side of town. The last street was a bit of a puzzler -- he had to do some research to find a tree name starting with "Z", and finally settled on Zelkova, an elm tree native to Europe. Since this street was never actually developed -- it abuts the town dump -- most people just call it "Z Street".
Since the newly aligned and straightened Cidertown Road ran through the middle of town, it lined up with "M" street, so Beaune renamed it Main Street. However, many people still call it the Cidertown Road, and others think it should be named Maple Street, in keeping with the tree theme. This is confusing to outsiders. Fortunately, there aren't many outsiders in Beauneville.
Names of the remaining East-West streets followed logically: Birch, Cherry, Dogwood, Elm, Fig, Ginkgo, Hickory, Ivy, Juniper, Kalopanax, Larch; and below Main Street, Nutmeg, Olive, Pear, Quince, Rose (subsequently renamed Railroad), Sassafras, Teak, Ulmus, Viburnum, Willow, Xanthum and Yew.
When it came to naming the North-South streets, Auguste had exhausted his creativity, so he just numbered them from First Street on the Eastern boundary, to Twentieth Street on the Western boundary.
In laying out the town, there was a singular way that Beaune treated topographic features: he ignored them, except for the Mill Pond, which he couldn't ignore. Fortunately, the Beaune tract is largely flat, except for the gentle slope downhill towards the Mill Pond in the Southwest corner of town. Where the Mill Pond interrupts the street grid, the streets end rather abruptly, in dead ends.
When the town plan was complete, Auguste Beaune proudly wrote "Beauneville" in large letters across the top of the map. The name stuck, mainly because as the owner and builder of the town, Beaune could call it whatever he liked. If anyone objected to renaming the town, their objections were not recorded.
With demand strong for the Beaune Valve, Auguste knew that his small group of craftsmen working in a crowded workshop would not be able to keep up. So he decided to build a factory. But a factory would require workers, and workers would require homes, and there were only a few homes in Cidertown.
So he decided to build a town. And, since Auguste Beaune did not like messy things, it would be a nicely organized town, with perfectly straight streets and rectangular blocks based on classical models.
He laid out the streets of the town on a large piece of paper (which you can see next to the page from his diary), using drafting tools and a big, sharp pencil.
The first problem he encountered was the Cidertown Road, which ambled haphazardly past the mill. With quick strokes of his pencil, Auguste transformed the crooked road to Main Street, straight as a ruler and precisely aligned to the East-West dimension. In so doing, Auguste shifted the center of the town North, to the center of his square tract of land. That is why the oldest buildings in town today, including the Old Cider Mill, are not in the center of town. It's also why the Beaune Estate has such a huge front lawn.
Next, he laid out the streets. He decided that each lot should be two hundred feet deep and one hundred feet wide, with ten lots on each side of the block. Dividing the tract into equal blocks, he determined that there should be twenty-six streets running East and West. He named these streets alphabetically for trees and shrubs, starting with Apple Street on the North side of town. The last street was a bit of a puzzler -- he had to do some research to find a tree name starting with "Z", and finally settled on Zelkova, an elm tree native to Europe. Since this street was never actually developed -- it abuts the town dump -- most people just call it "Z Street".
Since the newly aligned and straightened Cidertown Road ran through the middle of town, it lined up with "M" street, so Beaune renamed it Main Street. However, many people still call it the Cidertown Road, and others think it should be named Maple Street, in keeping with the tree theme. This is confusing to outsiders. Fortunately, there aren't many outsiders in Beauneville.
Names of the remaining East-West streets followed logically: Birch, Cherry, Dogwood, Elm, Fig, Ginkgo, Hickory, Ivy, Juniper, Kalopanax, Larch; and below Main Street, Nutmeg, Olive, Pear, Quince, Rose (subsequently renamed Railroad), Sassafras, Teak, Ulmus, Viburnum, Willow, Xanthum and Yew.
When it came to naming the North-South streets, Auguste had exhausted his creativity, so he just numbered them from First Street on the Eastern boundary, to Twentieth Street on the Western boundary.
In laying out the town, there was a singular way that Beaune treated topographic features: he ignored them, except for the Mill Pond, which he couldn't ignore. Fortunately, the Beaune tract is largely flat, except for the gentle slope downhill towards the Mill Pond in the Southwest corner of town. Where the Mill Pond interrupts the street grid, the streets end rather abruptly, in dead ends.
When the town plan was complete, Auguste Beaune proudly wrote "Beauneville" in large letters across the top of the map. The name stuck, mainly because as the owner and builder of the town, Beaune could call it whatever he liked. If anyone objected to renaming the town, their objections were not recorded.
Monday, August 23, 2010
The Beaune Valve
If you proceed to the next display, you will find an oddly-shaped but finely crafted valve; some mechanical drawings; an ancient contract; and a framed pen-and-ink drawing of the Beaune workshop.
Auguste Beaune soon discovered that the American market for Calvados-style apple brandy was limited. Absent refined tastes, local citizens tended to use the stuff as hair tonic, pain remover or weed killer; these uses were highly creative, but did not command a high price. While Auguste found that he could sell as much cider as the Conestoga wagons could carry, his cellars were full to overflowing with barrels of unsold apple brandy.
As a confirmed tinkerer, Auguste constantly improved his distilling equipment, and in so doing he developed a specialized valve, known as the Beaune Valve. He promptly applied for a patent which was granted the following year. Precisely what the Beaune Valve does that is different or better than any other valve is a mystery. Suffice to say that it looks different; and it is patented. This was all that Auguste Beaune needed to sell it for use in the burgeoning steam locomotive industry.
Traveling to locomotive manufacturers around the country with a valise full of Beaune valves, a trunk full of apple brandy, and an attractive young assistant named Daisy Birtwhistle, Auguste made his pitch. He was a persuasive salesman. Plying his marks with apple brandy, he and Daisy encouraged them to pick up a valve, examine its fine craftsmanship, and look for themselves: see, it's different! And it's patented! Daisy would then invite the customer to her room to "examine some technical drawings", after which the customer was invariably persuaded.
The directors of the Juniata Works were intrigued; as a rapidly growing locomotive manufacturer, they sought a reliable supply of well-crafted valves that were, well, different. Negotiations extended many months, requiring multiple visits to the Works for persuasion, and many personal review sessions with Daisy. Finally, the directors agreed to an exclusive contract with Beaune Valve Company, and from that day forth every locomotive produced by the Juniata Works was equipped with Beaune Valves.
It was a triumph of American ingenuity.
As it turns out, Auguste Beaune was either prescient or lucky. Rail traffic boomed. Daisy continued to travel the country, meeting with railroad managers and explaining the benefits of the Beaune valve, usually in private session. Soon, every railroad manager wanted locomotives equipped with Beaune valves. Sales of locomotives produced by the Juniata Works rose exponentially. And now Auguste had a new problem: how to meet the demand for Beaune valves.
This was a problem not readily solved through resort to Daisy Birtwhistle's persuasive abilities.
Auguste Beaune soon discovered that the American market for Calvados-style apple brandy was limited. Absent refined tastes, local citizens tended to use the stuff as hair tonic, pain remover or weed killer; these uses were highly creative, but did not command a high price. While Auguste found that he could sell as much cider as the Conestoga wagons could carry, his cellars were full to overflowing with barrels of unsold apple brandy.
As a confirmed tinkerer, Auguste constantly improved his distilling equipment, and in so doing he developed a specialized valve, known as the Beaune Valve. He promptly applied for a patent which was granted the following year. Precisely what the Beaune Valve does that is different or better than any other valve is a mystery. Suffice to say that it looks different; and it is patented. This was all that Auguste Beaune needed to sell it for use in the burgeoning steam locomotive industry.
Traveling to locomotive manufacturers around the country with a valise full of Beaune valves, a trunk full of apple brandy, and an attractive young assistant named Daisy Birtwhistle, Auguste made his pitch. He was a persuasive salesman. Plying his marks with apple brandy, he and Daisy encouraged them to pick up a valve, examine its fine craftsmanship, and look for themselves: see, it's different! And it's patented! Daisy would then invite the customer to her room to "examine some technical drawings", after which the customer was invariably persuaded.
The directors of the Juniata Works were intrigued; as a rapidly growing locomotive manufacturer, they sought a reliable supply of well-crafted valves that were, well, different. Negotiations extended many months, requiring multiple visits to the Works for persuasion, and many personal review sessions with Daisy. Finally, the directors agreed to an exclusive contract with Beaune Valve Company, and from that day forth every locomotive produced by the Juniata Works was equipped with Beaune Valves.
It was a triumph of American ingenuity.
As it turns out, Auguste Beaune was either prescient or lucky. Rail traffic boomed. Daisy continued to travel the country, meeting with railroad managers and explaining the benefits of the Beaune valve, usually in private session. Soon, every railroad manager wanted locomotives equipped with Beaune valves. Sales of locomotives produced by the Juniata Works rose exponentially. And now Auguste had a new problem: how to meet the demand for Beaune valves.
This was a problem not readily solved through resort to Daisy Birtwhistle's persuasive abilities.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
The Finest Apple Brandy in America
The visitor to the Beaune Museum who proceeds along the display will next see several artifacts: an ancient glass bottle; journals and records of the cider mill; drawings of Auguste Beaune's distilling equipment; and a tool used to tap the barrels of brandy.
"I shall make the finest apple brandy in America", said August Beaune to Marie-Helene, who nodded approvingly. Not that she cared one way or the other; Marie-Helene invariably nodded approvingly at Auguste's ideas, since failing to do so would cause him to sulk. She had learned long ago that a simple nod was sufficient to get him out of her face and go back to his tinkering, so she could return to her misery.
Mary the governess took responsibility for teaching the girls, and the Beaunes hired a local girl named Daisy to take care of Robert.
Auguste set about with a passion to make the finest Calvados in America. He placed Rufus Witherspoon in charge of the cider mill, and Albert Dutoit in charge of apple and cider trading. Under Witherspoon's leadership mill production tripled; but this was due in part to Dutoit's brilliant apple trading and buying. Some of the local apple farmers were unaccustomed to dealing with a black man, and a few complained to Auguste about this; they soon learned that if they did not wish to deal with Dutoit they could sell their apples elsewhere. But even the most bigoted had to admit that Albert Dutoit was a brilliant apple trader, one with a keen nose for good apples and an amazingly sharp buyer and seller.
Near the cider mill, Beaune built a stone building to house the distilling equipment he had brought from Normandie. Though he was willing to delegate the milling and trading operations, nobody other than Auguste was permitted to touch the stills.
In the first season of operations, local growers produced a bumper crop of apples, and the cider mill operated from dawn to dusk. Some growers hauled their apples to the mill, paid a fee and hauled away the cider. Others sold their apples to Dutoit, who arranged for the sale of cider in cities to the East; a steady stream of Conestoga wagons laden with drums of cider departed the mill.
The best cider, though, was diverted to Auguste's distillery, which operated through the night. The double-distilled liquid was piped into oaken barrels, which were stored in a cellar below the distillery.
For five years, Mr. Witherspoon ran the cider mill while Mr. Dutoit bought apples and sold cider. During the long harvest season, the mill ran from dawn to dusk, farmers unloaded their apples, sweating men loaded drums of cider onto Conestoga wagons, and Auguste Beaune distilled apple brandy from cider, storing the product away for aging.
On a December evening, when the mill was shut down for the season, Auguste tapped a golden liquid from one of the barrels put aside in the first season. He poured three glasses: one for himself, one for Mr. Witherspoon and one for Mr. Dutoit. With great ceremony, the three men tasted the apple brandy.
A single sip was sufficient to confirm: Auguste Beaune had indeed brewed the finest apple brandy in America.
"I shall make the finest apple brandy in America", said August Beaune to Marie-Helene, who nodded approvingly. Not that she cared one way or the other; Marie-Helene invariably nodded approvingly at Auguste's ideas, since failing to do so would cause him to sulk. She had learned long ago that a simple nod was sufficient to get him out of her face and go back to his tinkering, so she could return to her misery.
Mary the governess took responsibility for teaching the girls, and the Beaunes hired a local girl named Daisy to take care of Robert.
Auguste set about with a passion to make the finest Calvados in America. He placed Rufus Witherspoon in charge of the cider mill, and Albert Dutoit in charge of apple and cider trading. Under Witherspoon's leadership mill production tripled; but this was due in part to Dutoit's brilliant apple trading and buying. Some of the local apple farmers were unaccustomed to dealing with a black man, and a few complained to Auguste about this; they soon learned that if they did not wish to deal with Dutoit they could sell their apples elsewhere. But even the most bigoted had to admit that Albert Dutoit was a brilliant apple trader, one with a keen nose for good apples and an amazingly sharp buyer and seller.
Near the cider mill, Beaune built a stone building to house the distilling equipment he had brought from Normandie. Though he was willing to delegate the milling and trading operations, nobody other than Auguste was permitted to touch the stills.
In the first season of operations, local growers produced a bumper crop of apples, and the cider mill operated from dawn to dusk. Some growers hauled their apples to the mill, paid a fee and hauled away the cider. Others sold their apples to Dutoit, who arranged for the sale of cider in cities to the East; a steady stream of Conestoga wagons laden with drums of cider departed the mill.
The best cider, though, was diverted to Auguste's distillery, which operated through the night. The double-distilled liquid was piped into oaken barrels, which were stored in a cellar below the distillery.
For five years, Mr. Witherspoon ran the cider mill while Mr. Dutoit bought apples and sold cider. During the long harvest season, the mill ran from dawn to dusk, farmers unloaded their apples, sweating men loaded drums of cider onto Conestoga wagons, and Auguste Beaune distilled apple brandy from cider, storing the product away for aging.
On a December evening, when the mill was shut down for the season, Auguste tapped a golden liquid from one of the barrels put aside in the first season. He poured three glasses: one for himself, one for Mr. Witherspoon and one for Mr. Dutoit. With great ceremony, the three men tasted the apple brandy.
A single sip was sufficient to confirm: Auguste Beaune had indeed brewed the finest apple brandy in America.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
The Indian Head Tavern
The next picture on the wall of the Beaune Museum is a drawing of the Indian Head Tavern, a city tavern which drew its name from the preserved head of an Indian which was displayed on a pike for many years. The original head disappeared during the Revolution, but the name stuck.
The Beaunes took a suite of rooms upstairs in the Tavern, overlooking Cedar Street. There, they rested and recovered from their voyage, and began to make plans for their next step.
While Marie-Helene stayed in bed at the Tavern, Auguste consulted a number of experts in horticulture who lived in the city. Everyone he consulted agreed that the best country for apple cultivation could be found in Washington County, a six-day journey by Conestoga Wagon. And so the die was cast; Auguste purchased a large tract of land complete with mill and cider press at Cidertown, between Dingman's Hat and Ticklish Rock.
To make the journey to Cidertown, Auguste purchased three large Conestoga wagons, each with a team of four horses. Since Marie-Helene was in no condition to drive a wagon (and Mary, the governess, lacked the skill), Auguste hired two men to help: Rufus Witherspoon, a local teamster itching to go west, and Albert DuToit, a black freedman from Haiti who had befriended Auguste in the Tavern.
According to Marie-Helene's diary, the six-day journey by Conestoga wagon over rough and unpaved roads was miserable.
But then, what would you expect?
Anyway, they arrived in Cidertown, evicted some families who were squatting on the land, and built a temporary shelter where Marie-Helene, who was heavy with child, could be miserable without getting in the way.
Soon thereafter, she had her baby, without epidurals and other stuff that make contemporary childbirth a snap. The event was completely miserable, and messy, but in the end she gave birth to a baby boy, which completely made up for disappointing results the previous five times.
Joyfully, Auguste and Marie-Helene named the baby Robert.
The Beaunes took a suite of rooms upstairs in the Tavern, overlooking Cedar Street. There, they rested and recovered from their voyage, and began to make plans for their next step.
While Marie-Helene stayed in bed at the Tavern, Auguste consulted a number of experts in horticulture who lived in the city. Everyone he consulted agreed that the best country for apple cultivation could be found in Washington County, a six-day journey by Conestoga Wagon. And so the die was cast; Auguste purchased a large tract of land complete with mill and cider press at Cidertown, between Dingman's Hat and Ticklish Rock.
To make the journey to Cidertown, Auguste purchased three large Conestoga wagons, each with a team of four horses. Since Marie-Helene was in no condition to drive a wagon (and Mary, the governess, lacked the skill), Auguste hired two men to help: Rufus Witherspoon, a local teamster itching to go west, and Albert DuToit, a black freedman from Haiti who had befriended Auguste in the Tavern.
According to Marie-Helene's diary, the six-day journey by Conestoga wagon over rough and unpaved roads was miserable.
But then, what would you expect?
Anyway, they arrived in Cidertown, evicted some families who were squatting on the land, and built a temporary shelter where Marie-Helene, who was heavy with child, could be miserable without getting in the way.
Soon thereafter, she had her baby, without epidurals and other stuff that make contemporary childbirth a snap. The event was completely miserable, and messy, but in the end she gave birth to a baby boy, which completely made up for disappointing results the previous five times.
Joyfully, Auguste and Marie-Helene named the baby Robert.
Friday, August 20, 2010
The Voyage
Below and to the left the painting of La Belliere, there is a display case holding Marie-Helene's ancient frayed diary, a few small tools and an aging map.
Marie-Helene recorded her thoughts several times a day during their journey, which was long and arduous. From Cherbourg, the Beaunes took a packet across the English Channel to Portsmouth, where they stayed a fortnight waiting for a ship to America. In due course, Auguste secured passage on the barque Cornwall, and they departed the Old World.
Between seasickness and morning sickness, the trip was abject misery for Marie-Helene; it was hardly better for Auguste and the three girls (Therese, Catherine and Isabelle). Throughout the voyage, Mary the governess was a tower of strength, tending to Marie-Helene and doing everything possible to make the travelers comfortable.
The trip took four long and uncomfortable weeks, but was uneventful. The Cornwall sailed into a large bay and thence into the mouth of a great river. The surging tide carried them upriver a great distance, until they dropped anchor by a great muddy island. After a short delay, a pilot came aboard and steered the ship through the shallows until finally they tied up at a long wharf by a lazaretto.
Men came aboard the ship to inspect passengers and cargo. They examined each member of the Beaune family and, satisfied that they carried no infectious diseases, moved on.
Upon the incoming tide, the Cornwall resumed its journey, and a few hours later she dropped anchor at a franticly busy quay. The Beaunes gathered their possessions and weakly staggered down the passageway to land.
At last, they had arrived in America, with nothing but faith, hope and optimism. Nothing, that is, other than the dozen or so trunks and wardrobes, packing crates full of distilling equipment and a fortune in letters of credit drawn on a London bank.
Marie-Helene recorded her thoughts several times a day during their journey, which was long and arduous. From Cherbourg, the Beaunes took a packet across the English Channel to Portsmouth, where they stayed a fortnight waiting for a ship to America. In due course, Auguste secured passage on the barque Cornwall, and they departed the Old World.
Between seasickness and morning sickness, the trip was abject misery for Marie-Helene; it was hardly better for Auguste and the three girls (Therese, Catherine and Isabelle). Throughout the voyage, Mary the governess was a tower of strength, tending to Marie-Helene and doing everything possible to make the travelers comfortable.
The trip took four long and uncomfortable weeks, but was uneventful. The Cornwall sailed into a large bay and thence into the mouth of a great river. The surging tide carried them upriver a great distance, until they dropped anchor by a great muddy island. After a short delay, a pilot came aboard and steered the ship through the shallows until finally they tied up at a long wharf by a lazaretto.
Men came aboard the ship to inspect passengers and cargo. They examined each member of the Beaune family and, satisfied that they carried no infectious diseases, moved on.
Upon the incoming tide, the Cornwall resumed its journey, and a few hours later she dropped anchor at a franticly busy quay. The Beaunes gathered their possessions and weakly staggered down the passageway to land.
At last, they had arrived in America, with nothing but faith, hope and optimism. Nothing, that is, other than the dozen or so trunks and wardrobes, packing crates full of distilling equipment and a fortune in letters of credit drawn on a London bank.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Normandy
On the road from Vire to Villedieu in the Norman department of Calvados, there is a crossroads. Take the road south towards St. Martin de Tallevende, through the rolling countryside; on the right-hand side stands an ancient farm known as La Belliere.
Here, Auguste Beaune lived more than a century ago.
As a boy, Auguste heard about the glories of Napoleon and his Grand Armee, but growing up among the sheep and goats in the pastoral countryside, the wars seemed like little more than distant thunder. As a skilled manufacturer of Calvados, the Norman apple brandy, Auguste's father was exempt from service in the Grand Armee. Auguste was an only child; his mother died in childbirth, and the only "mother" he knew was Mary, an English housekeeper and governess engaged to care for him.
From Mary, Auguste learned to speak and write perfect English. He read voraciously in both English and French, absorbing Enlightenment thought from both sides of the Channel. When he wasn't reading, he worked with his father and learned how to make Calvados. And when he wasn't reading or making Calvados, he tinkered with gadgets in the farm's workshop. In all three endeavors -- reading, Calvados-making and tinkering -- Auguste showed great talent.
With the Bourbon Restoration, little changed at La Belliere. Local workers harvested the apples, hay and other crops, while Auguste and his father made cider and Calvados from the apples. A beautiful young girl named Marie-Helene came to live on the farm; she tended the sheep, goats and cows and made butter and cheese.
Auguste was enraptured with Marie-Helene from her first day. The feeling was mutual. They soon copulated amongst the haystacks, and before summer turned to fall Marie-Helene was pregnant. Auguste's father swiftly arranged a civil marriage, and the young couple moved in to a cottage adjacent to the main farmhouse at La Belliere.
The farm prospered. The soil was fertile and so, it turns out, was Marie-Helene; in quick succession, she bore five girls, of which three survived. Prosperity and domestic bliss notwithstanding, Auguste was restless; amidst the corruption and ineptitude of the Bourbon monarchy, America seemed to shine as a beacon of liberty and boundless prosperity. When Auguste's father died and willed him La Belliere, he decided to sell the farm and emigrate.
La Belliere brought a small fortune. Auguste arranged for letters of credit drawn on a London bank, carefully packed his books and tools, arranged for the shipment of the cider presses and Calvados-distilling works and set out for Cherbourg by coach with Mary, Marie-Helene and the three girls.
As the coach rocked and swayed on the rutted road, Marie-Helene felt sick to her stomach. She was pregnant again.
Here, Auguste Beaune lived more than a century ago.
As a boy, Auguste heard about the glories of Napoleon and his Grand Armee, but growing up among the sheep and goats in the pastoral countryside, the wars seemed like little more than distant thunder. As a skilled manufacturer of Calvados, the Norman apple brandy, Auguste's father was exempt from service in the Grand Armee. Auguste was an only child; his mother died in childbirth, and the only "mother" he knew was Mary, an English housekeeper and governess engaged to care for him.
From Mary, Auguste learned to speak and write perfect English. He read voraciously in both English and French, absorbing Enlightenment thought from both sides of the Channel. When he wasn't reading, he worked with his father and learned how to make Calvados. And when he wasn't reading or making Calvados, he tinkered with gadgets in the farm's workshop. In all three endeavors -- reading, Calvados-making and tinkering -- Auguste showed great talent.
With the Bourbon Restoration, little changed at La Belliere. Local workers harvested the apples, hay and other crops, while Auguste and his father made cider and Calvados from the apples. A beautiful young girl named Marie-Helene came to live on the farm; she tended the sheep, goats and cows and made butter and cheese.
Auguste was enraptured with Marie-Helene from her first day. The feeling was mutual. They soon copulated amongst the haystacks, and before summer turned to fall Marie-Helene was pregnant. Auguste's father swiftly arranged a civil marriage, and the young couple moved in to a cottage adjacent to the main farmhouse at La Belliere.
The farm prospered. The soil was fertile and so, it turns out, was Marie-Helene; in quick succession, she bore five girls, of which three survived. Prosperity and domestic bliss notwithstanding, Auguste was restless; amidst the corruption and ineptitude of the Bourbon monarchy, America seemed to shine as a beacon of liberty and boundless prosperity. When Auguste's father died and willed him La Belliere, he decided to sell the farm and emigrate.
La Belliere brought a small fortune. Auguste arranged for letters of credit drawn on a London bank, carefully packed his books and tools, arranged for the shipment of the cider presses and Calvados-distilling works and set out for Cherbourg by coach with Mary, Marie-Helene and the three girls.
As the coach rocked and swayed on the rutted road, Marie-Helene felt sick to her stomach. She was pregnant again.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
The Beaune Estate
Perhaps you would like a tour of the Beaune Estate? Most people do. It's one of the most interesting things to see in Beauneville.
You can park on Main Street, right across from the big church. There's a walkway leading across the long, gently sloping lawn. The front door is unlocked, so step in to the entry hall.
Through an archway to the left is the South Wing, where the town library resides. Through an archway to the right is the Beaune Museum. And through an archway straight ahead, to the rear of the entry hall, you can see a grand ballroom. Flights of stairs lead to the upper levels; Mr. and Mrs. Greenberg, curator and librarian, respectively, have an apartment upstairs, and there are some offices.
Let's take a quick look into the ballroom. It's empty now, but you can imagine crowds of people dancing on the parquet floor. Denizens of Beauneville come her for weddings, celebrations, and special events like the Apple Blossom Festival, or the Wisteria Celebration or the Rose Garden Party. The back of the ballroom opens to the garden through great french doors. When the weather is nice the doors are thrown open, and celebrants come and go between ballroom and garden. There is usually music at these events, and in the evening you can walk to the back of the garden to the great Wisteria arbor and listen to the music slightly filtered through the night air.
Back to the entry hall. Auguste Beaune built the South Wing as his own private library, then willed it to the town on his death. It's a grand library, with two stories of books. You need a special rolling ladder to reach books on the upper level. There are great wooden desks with little reading lights, and wooden chairs that look like they are fifty years old. Because they are.
There is a remarkable system for book retrieval in the Beauneville Library. You look up the book in the card catalogue, where there is an index card for each book. Then you go get the book yourself, using the ladder if necessary. If you want to check out the book, give it to Mrs. Greenberg; she sits at a round desk in the center of the library.
Don't make too much noise in the library, or Mrs. Greenberg will glare at you; when Mrs. Greenberg glares at you, you know you'd best change your behavior. And make sure that you return your books on time, lest Mrs. Greenberg come knocking on your door.
Where library books are concerned, Mrs. Greenberg is remarkably persistent. Legend has it that she interrupted a meeting of the Board of Directors at Beauneville Trust to demand the return of A History of Erotic Art from one of the directors. He complied, sheepishly.
The Beauneville Public Library does not censor materials considered by some to be offensive. "Why would I do that?", asks Mrs. Greenberg. "Erotic materials are our most popular category".
Let's go back out to the entry hall, and walk on through to the Beaune Museum in the North Wing. Like the South Wing, the North Wing is one large room two stories high. Instead of books, though, the museum has display tables with various objects. On the walls, you can see assorted paintings, drawings and photographs.
The most prominent display, though, is in the center of the room, where the stuffed and preserved remains of August Beaune lie in a glass display case. The children of Beauneville believe it is great good luck to press one's cheek to the glass near August Beaune's face. Of course, this is strictly against the rules, but the children do it anyway when Mr. Greenberg isn't looking (which is most of the time).
Look around the room. There is a story behind each painting, drawing, photograph and artifact. The first, just to the right of the archway leading to the room, appears to be a drawing of a farm...
You can park on Main Street, right across from the big church. There's a walkway leading across the long, gently sloping lawn. The front door is unlocked, so step in to the entry hall.
Through an archway to the left is the South Wing, where the town library resides. Through an archway to the right is the Beaune Museum. And through an archway straight ahead, to the rear of the entry hall, you can see a grand ballroom. Flights of stairs lead to the upper levels; Mr. and Mrs. Greenberg, curator and librarian, respectively, have an apartment upstairs, and there are some offices.
Let's take a quick look into the ballroom. It's empty now, but you can imagine crowds of people dancing on the parquet floor. Denizens of Beauneville come her for weddings, celebrations, and special events like the Apple Blossom Festival, or the Wisteria Celebration or the Rose Garden Party. The back of the ballroom opens to the garden through great french doors. When the weather is nice the doors are thrown open, and celebrants come and go between ballroom and garden. There is usually music at these events, and in the evening you can walk to the back of the garden to the great Wisteria arbor and listen to the music slightly filtered through the night air.
Back to the entry hall. Auguste Beaune built the South Wing as his own private library, then willed it to the town on his death. It's a grand library, with two stories of books. You need a special rolling ladder to reach books on the upper level. There are great wooden desks with little reading lights, and wooden chairs that look like they are fifty years old. Because they are.
There is a remarkable system for book retrieval in the Beauneville Library. You look up the book in the card catalogue, where there is an index card for each book. Then you go get the book yourself, using the ladder if necessary. If you want to check out the book, give it to Mrs. Greenberg; she sits at a round desk in the center of the library.
Don't make too much noise in the library, or Mrs. Greenberg will glare at you; when Mrs. Greenberg glares at you, you know you'd best change your behavior. And make sure that you return your books on time, lest Mrs. Greenberg come knocking on your door.
Where library books are concerned, Mrs. Greenberg is remarkably persistent. Legend has it that she interrupted a meeting of the Board of Directors at Beauneville Trust to demand the return of A History of Erotic Art from one of the directors. He complied, sheepishly.
The Beauneville Public Library does not censor materials considered by some to be offensive. "Why would I do that?", asks Mrs. Greenberg. "Erotic materials are our most popular category".
Let's go back out to the entry hall, and walk on through to the Beaune Museum in the North Wing. Like the South Wing, the North Wing is one large room two stories high. Instead of books, though, the museum has display tables with various objects. On the walls, you can see assorted paintings, drawings and photographs.
The most prominent display, though, is in the center of the room, where the stuffed and preserved remains of August Beaune lie in a glass display case. The children of Beauneville believe it is great good luck to press one's cheek to the glass near August Beaune's face. Of course, this is strictly against the rules, but the children do it anyway when Mr. Greenberg isn't looking (which is most of the time).
Look around the room. There is a story behind each painting, drawing, photograph and artifact. The first, just to the right of the archway leading to the room, appears to be a drawing of a farm...
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Welcome to Beauneville
Go West from Stapleton on the Cidertown Road if you want to get to Beauneville. Cross the Rushing River on a steel girder bridge -- your tires will hum on the grating -- then up a slight grade and through the rolling orchard country of Washington County. A few miles down the road, you may feel a slight bumpety-bump where trolley tracks once crossed the road.
Just past the bumpety-bump, watch for a large wooden apple-shaped sign by the side of the road. If you look closely, you can see faded lettering: Welcome to Beauneville.
Keep going on the Cidertown Road. There is a slight rise in the road, and trees on either side of the street, then a parade of stately Victorian homes. An old stone church interjects on the right-hand side of the street, and a great lawn on the left. Set well back behind the lawn you will see a sprawling mansion, and as you pass you can see a sign in front: Beaune Estate: Public Museum and Library.
We're almost to the center of town, but pay attention or you may miss it. After the estate, you may notice that the buildings are closer together and the trees thin out. On the left, Ackermann's Market occupies several adjoining storefronts. A short distance later, there is a traffic light -- the only light in town. Across the street on the opposite corner, you will see Zeppelin Drugs.
When the light turns green, proceed on Main Street -- that's what they call the Cidertown Road in town. On either side of the street, there are various and sundry businesses, such as Dorabella's Books on the right, and the Cafe Venice across the street.
The trees return in the next block. There are more homes on the left side, and on the right side a complex of buildings, with signs: Beauneville Grammar, Beauneville Academy and Beauneville Latin.
Now the road descends gently, the trees and homes thin out, and on the left you will see a large pond. If you visit in summer, you will certainly see canoes on the water -- many canoes.
There is no sign when you leave Beauneville, but you will know you are leaving if you see Uncle Dave's Farm on the left-hand side. Nobody knows exactly why it's called Uncle Dave's Farm. Presumably, it was owned and operated by some guy named Dave, who was somebody's uncle. The current proprietor is Rufus Lipschitz.
You will also see orchards on either side of the road, because wherever you go in Washington County there are oceans of orchards wherever you look. But stop! Don't leave yet! There are more things to see and do in Beauneville.
After you make the U-turn and pass the pond, take your first right. As you drive along this quiet residential street, note that the street names ascend alphabetically, and they are mostly named for trees: Nutmeg, Olive, Peach, Quince and, well, Railroad. Turn left at that last street, and you will note that it is aptly named, for there is a set of railroad tracks embedded in the pavement.
Drive carefully on Railroad Avenue, and keep an eye out for Beauneville Municipal Railway's engine number one, a squat green diesel with a center cab. It's hard to miss; they keep the diesel spotlessly clean and shiny because, to be perfectly honest, there's not that much freight to haul anymore.
A few blocks further down Railroad Avenue, you will see a Big Bob's Big Burger franchise on the left next to Mr. Smiley's gas station. If you are hungry, drive right past Big Bob's -- everyone else does -- and park near the Red Trolley Diner on the corner.
Local foodies know that the Red Trolley is the best place to eat in Beauneville; really, it's the only place to eat in Beauneville (Big Bob's doesn't count). Go inside and check out the menu: the Red Trolley is a great place for scrapple and applesauce, the local favorite; Beauneville Ham is always on the menu, and so are various kinds of apple desserts: apple pie, apple crisp, apple brown betty, apple cake, apple crullers, apple custard, apple flan, baked apples, and so forth.
But don't stop at the first page of the menu. The hungry traveler will be surprised to learn that the Red Trolley has curries, many lovely curries: Red Curry, Green Curry and Yellow Curry; curries from Bengal, Moojarat and Punjab; the incredibly fiery curry of Pish-Tush; and the most magnificent curry of all, the Masaman Curry.
If the curries and local foods don't inspire, try the Daily Special. But here's a little secret of Red Trolley etiquette: order the Daily Special if you will, but do not ask what it is. Rest assured, the Daily Special will be special, but if you ask what it is you will not be served. You may sit at your table until closing if you wish, but you will not be served. It's just something you need to know if you dine at the Red Trolley.
If you are intrigued, perhaps you would like to stay the night in Beauneville. If you know someone in town, go there; otherwise, head back to Stapleton and check in to the Station Hotel; it's seedy, and they charge by the hour, but the bedbugs aren't too bad. Get a room in the back, lest the freight trains out front disturb your sleep.
If you have some time to kill in Stapleton, check out the Bowl-A-Drome. On a summer evening, it's fairly crowded with teens. If you walk around outside, be careful of dark places; you may disturb a couple seeking privacy.
Just past the bumpety-bump, watch for a large wooden apple-shaped sign by the side of the road. If you look closely, you can see faded lettering: Welcome to Beauneville.
Keep going on the Cidertown Road. There is a slight rise in the road, and trees on either side of the street, then a parade of stately Victorian homes. An old stone church interjects on the right-hand side of the street, and a great lawn on the left. Set well back behind the lawn you will see a sprawling mansion, and as you pass you can see a sign in front: Beaune Estate: Public Museum and Library.
We're almost to the center of town, but pay attention or you may miss it. After the estate, you may notice that the buildings are closer together and the trees thin out. On the left, Ackermann's Market occupies several adjoining storefronts. A short distance later, there is a traffic light -- the only light in town. Across the street on the opposite corner, you will see Zeppelin Drugs.
When the light turns green, proceed on Main Street -- that's what they call the Cidertown Road in town. On either side of the street, there are various and sundry businesses, such as Dorabella's Books on the right, and the Cafe Venice across the street.
The trees return in the next block. There are more homes on the left side, and on the right side a complex of buildings, with signs: Beauneville Grammar, Beauneville Academy and Beauneville Latin.
Now the road descends gently, the trees and homes thin out, and on the left you will see a large pond. If you visit in summer, you will certainly see canoes on the water -- many canoes.
There is no sign when you leave Beauneville, but you will know you are leaving if you see Uncle Dave's Farm on the left-hand side. Nobody knows exactly why it's called Uncle Dave's Farm. Presumably, it was owned and operated by some guy named Dave, who was somebody's uncle. The current proprietor is Rufus Lipschitz.
You will also see orchards on either side of the road, because wherever you go in Washington County there are oceans of orchards wherever you look. But stop! Don't leave yet! There are more things to see and do in Beauneville.
After you make the U-turn and pass the pond, take your first right. As you drive along this quiet residential street, note that the street names ascend alphabetically, and they are mostly named for trees: Nutmeg, Olive, Peach, Quince and, well, Railroad. Turn left at that last street, and you will note that it is aptly named, for there is a set of railroad tracks embedded in the pavement.
Drive carefully on Railroad Avenue, and keep an eye out for Beauneville Municipal Railway's engine number one, a squat green diesel with a center cab. It's hard to miss; they keep the diesel spotlessly clean and shiny because, to be perfectly honest, there's not that much freight to haul anymore.
A few blocks further down Railroad Avenue, you will see a Big Bob's Big Burger franchise on the left next to Mr. Smiley's gas station. If you are hungry, drive right past Big Bob's -- everyone else does -- and park near the Red Trolley Diner on the corner.
Local foodies know that the Red Trolley is the best place to eat in Beauneville; really, it's the only place to eat in Beauneville (Big Bob's doesn't count). Go inside and check out the menu: the Red Trolley is a great place for scrapple and applesauce, the local favorite; Beauneville Ham is always on the menu, and so are various kinds of apple desserts: apple pie, apple crisp, apple brown betty, apple cake, apple crullers, apple custard, apple flan, baked apples, and so forth.
But don't stop at the first page of the menu. The hungry traveler will be surprised to learn that the Red Trolley has curries, many lovely curries: Red Curry, Green Curry and Yellow Curry; curries from Bengal, Moojarat and Punjab; the incredibly fiery curry of Pish-Tush; and the most magnificent curry of all, the Masaman Curry.
If the curries and local foods don't inspire, try the Daily Special. But here's a little secret of Red Trolley etiquette: order the Daily Special if you will, but do not ask what it is. Rest assured, the Daily Special will be special, but if you ask what it is you will not be served. You may sit at your table until closing if you wish, but you will not be served. It's just something you need to know if you dine at the Red Trolley.
If you are intrigued, perhaps you would like to stay the night in Beauneville. If you know someone in town, go there; otherwise, head back to Stapleton and check in to the Station Hotel; it's seedy, and they charge by the hour, but the bedbugs aren't too bad. Get a room in the back, lest the freight trains out front disturb your sleep.
If you have some time to kill in Stapleton, check out the Bowl-A-Drome. On a summer evening, it's fairly crowded with teens. If you walk around outside, be careful of dark places; you may disturb a couple seeking privacy.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Meet the Smiths
On any summer Monday evening, if you visit the Smiths you will most certainly find them at home.
The Smiths live in a big Queen Anne style Victorian home (with turrets!) on Elm Street, near the corner of Fourteenth. On summer evenings after dark, when it gets cooler outside, they like to sit in the living room and read, while listening to music.
Roderick Smith is sixteen. Actually, it's Roderick Smith IV, but everyone just calls him Roderick; they call his dad "Rod". Roderick is almost as tall as his dad; he has dark brown hair, slightly touseled. He is in many respects unexceptional: hard-working and studious, but not brilliant; well-mannered and kind, but not gregarious; nice-looking and neat, but not handsome. A true Cancer, Roderick is magnetic; the girls of his class are attracted to him by an unexplainable chemistry.
In school, Roderick likes Latin, English, History and Civics; he manages to get by in Math and Science, but he can't imagine pursuing a science career. He hasn't decided what he wants to do for a living -- he is, after all, just sixteen -- but if forced to choose something Roderick will tell you he wants to do what his dad does, help people manage their money.
On a summer Monday evening, you will usually find Roderick curled on the living room floor with a history book.
Roderick's dad, Roderick Smith III, grew up in Beauneville, went to Old Ivy College, then worked in finance for a time before setting up his own money management business. By nature conservative, Mr. Smith relates well with his clients, who want to be reassured that their investments are safe. You might say that Mr. Smith does not practice conservative portfolio management; he lives conservative portfolio management, with real devotion to thrift and modest goal setting.
On a summer Monday evening, you will usually find Mr. Smith sitting in the leather armchair in the living room, reading about asset pricing models.
Emily Thompson Smith grew up in Stapleton. She attended Old Ivy College, where she met Mr. Smith; the married and graduated the same month. Mrs. Smith is a technical writer, and she has her own freelance writing business which she runs out of a spare room on the second floor. She's quite good at technical writing and never wants for business. Since Roderick is older and fairly self-sufficient, she spends most of her time with her business.
On a summer Monday evening, you will usually find Mrs. Smith sitting on the couch reading a bodice-ripper.
Let's not forget the animals, of which there are several in the Smith home.
Shaggy and Chauncy are noble and aristocratic cats; they reign but do not rule. Shaggy, who has ruffly orange fur, is the product of a brief encounter between one of Dorabella's silken felines and a local Tom. Chauncy's precise origins are unknown; Roderick rescued him one day at the Red Trolley Diner, where his previous caretakers had abandoned him while passing through town.
Laddie used to be a puppy, but now he is remarkably transformed into a dog. His parentage is known; Laddie's dad and mom live in a doghouse out back that is a close replica of the main house (with turrets!). His ultimate breeding is inexact, however; he appears to be a mix of Lab and collie. Not that anyone cares.
Laddie is a clever dog, who always seems to know where Roderick is. He does tricks, comes when called, and makes it his business to be friendly with all of the denizens of Beauneville.
Knuckles is also a clever dog, who mostly just sleeps.
On a summer Monday evening you will usually find Knuckles snoozing in his little dog bed in the pantry; and you will find Laddie curled on the floor near Roderick.
But you won't find Chauncy and Shaggy, as they generally follow the beat of their own drummers. If you are lucky, though, they will find you.
The Smiths live in a big Queen Anne style Victorian home (with turrets!) on Elm Street, near the corner of Fourteenth. On summer evenings after dark, when it gets cooler outside, they like to sit in the living room and read, while listening to music.
Roderick Smith is sixteen. Actually, it's Roderick Smith IV, but everyone just calls him Roderick; they call his dad "Rod". Roderick is almost as tall as his dad; he has dark brown hair, slightly touseled. He is in many respects unexceptional: hard-working and studious, but not brilliant; well-mannered and kind, but not gregarious; nice-looking and neat, but not handsome. A true Cancer, Roderick is magnetic; the girls of his class are attracted to him by an unexplainable chemistry.
In school, Roderick likes Latin, English, History and Civics; he manages to get by in Math and Science, but he can't imagine pursuing a science career. He hasn't decided what he wants to do for a living -- he is, after all, just sixteen -- but if forced to choose something Roderick will tell you he wants to do what his dad does, help people manage their money.
On a summer Monday evening, you will usually find Roderick curled on the living room floor with a history book.
Roderick's dad, Roderick Smith III, grew up in Beauneville, went to Old Ivy College, then worked in finance for a time before setting up his own money management business. By nature conservative, Mr. Smith relates well with his clients, who want to be reassured that their investments are safe. You might say that Mr. Smith does not practice conservative portfolio management; he lives conservative portfolio management, with real devotion to thrift and modest goal setting.
On a summer Monday evening, you will usually find Mr. Smith sitting in the leather armchair in the living room, reading about asset pricing models.
Emily Thompson Smith grew up in Stapleton. She attended Old Ivy College, where she met Mr. Smith; the married and graduated the same month. Mrs. Smith is a technical writer, and she has her own freelance writing business which she runs out of a spare room on the second floor. She's quite good at technical writing and never wants for business. Since Roderick is older and fairly self-sufficient, she spends most of her time with her business.
On a summer Monday evening, you will usually find Mrs. Smith sitting on the couch reading a bodice-ripper.
Let's not forget the animals, of which there are several in the Smith home.
Shaggy and Chauncy are noble and aristocratic cats; they reign but do not rule. Shaggy, who has ruffly orange fur, is the product of a brief encounter between one of Dorabella's silken felines and a local Tom. Chauncy's precise origins are unknown; Roderick rescued him one day at the Red Trolley Diner, where his previous caretakers had abandoned him while passing through town.
Laddie used to be a puppy, but now he is remarkably transformed into a dog. His parentage is known; Laddie's dad and mom live in a doghouse out back that is a close replica of the main house (with turrets!). His ultimate breeding is inexact, however; he appears to be a mix of Lab and collie. Not that anyone cares.
Laddie is a clever dog, who always seems to know where Roderick is. He does tricks, comes when called, and makes it his business to be friendly with all of the denizens of Beauneville.
Knuckles is also a clever dog, who mostly just sleeps.
On a summer Monday evening you will usually find Knuckles snoozing in his little dog bed in the pantry; and you will find Laddie curled on the floor near Roderick.
But you won't find Chauncy and Shaggy, as they generally follow the beat of their own drummers. If you are lucky, though, they will find you.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Meet the Blooms
On a lovely Sunday in August, Henry and June Bloom dressed in their Sunday finest; so did their daughters Molly, Mary, Margaret and Catherine. Together, they walked several blocks to the Church of Nothing, where they arranged themselves on the front steps for a portrait: left to right, Mary, Molly, Mr. Bloom, Mrs. Bloom, Margaret, Catherine, Mr. Fuzzums.
A helpful fellow congregant agreed to snap the picture. Cheese!
Henry Bloom beamed. Henry is an advertising man, head of Bloom and Company. (The "and Company" part is fiction; Henry's agency is a one-man show). Born and raised in Beauneville, Henry knows just about everyone in town. There's not a lot of advertising business, but Wickett's Bazaar, Witherspoon Electric and Beaune Valve are good accounts and they keep him busy enough. In his spare time, Henry collects erotic art and performs practical jokes and stunts.
June Bloom smiled nervously. June is the homemaker par excellence; her practice of the culinary art is finely developed (though somewhat specialized). She likes to think of herself as "messy, but not dirty", and indeed a tour of the Bloom domicile reveals a home in the state of controlled chaos -- books and papers scattered hither and thither, but the kitchen and bathrooms are scrupulously clean.
Henry and June met as students in Paris, where they made it their business to engage in torrid sex in as many places as possible: Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower, the Opera, the Louvre, and on each subway line, among other places.
Molly Bloom rarely wears a dress, and she looks slightly uncomfortable, but smiles nevertheless. Ordinarily, she wears a shirt, pants and nothing else; she is sleek, gorgeous and completely blond, as every art student knows. She is passionate about Beethoven and little else other than karate, in which she is a black belt. At sixteen, Molly is totally focused, and shy. Roderick is her longtime friend and soulmate -- they were born two weeks apart, have attended school together from Kindergarten, and they communicate almost wordlessly. Are they more than friends, or will they ever be more than friends? Time will tell.
Mary, smiling and outgoing, is the good daughter. Kind to children, the elderly and small animals, Mary likes to help her mother around the house. She goes to great lengths to proclaim her commitment to morality and "abstinence only". Recently, she signed a pledge to maintain her virginity until marriage, and collected a $100 prize from the National Virginity Society. However, since her recent deflowering in the back of a minivan owned by a good-looking but nameless young man from Stapleton, Mary has developed a taste for secret and slightly dangerous sex -- dangerous for her partners, that is, since Mary is just shy of fifteen.
Some people might consider Mary a hypocrite. In Beauneville, though, there's a name for hypocrisy: it's called "manners".
Margaret does not smile for the camera. She is twelve years old, and she is the quiet daughter. Rarely speaking to anyone outside the family, Margaret is a brilliant logician, solver of crossword puzzles and black belt sodoku expert. Her teachers think that she will either invent cold fusion in a test tube or go insane.
Catherine waves to the camera, and so does Mr. Fuzzums. Catherine is ten years old, the youngest, and always get whatever she wants. Ordinarily, what she wants is quality time with Mr. Fuzzums, with whom she is totally BFF.
The Bloom girls have one thing in common: they all have straight blonde hair, which they wear long.
Click!
The picture taken, Mr. Bloom thanked the photographer, and they all walked to the Red Trolley Diner for Sunday brunch. They sat in a big booth and chatted while they waited for their food.
Molly couldn't wait to get out of the Sunday clothes and get back to the Bosendorfer.
Mary wondered if Mrs. Peacock was okay, and shivered slightly as she thought about what she did last night in the back seat of a 1954 DeSoto parked near the Mill Pond.
Margaret thought about Touchard's approach to the menage problem in mathematics.
Catherine hugged Mr. Fuzzums.
A helpful fellow congregant agreed to snap the picture. Cheese!
Henry Bloom beamed. Henry is an advertising man, head of Bloom and Company. (The "and Company" part is fiction; Henry's agency is a one-man show). Born and raised in Beauneville, Henry knows just about everyone in town. There's not a lot of advertising business, but Wickett's Bazaar, Witherspoon Electric and Beaune Valve are good accounts and they keep him busy enough. In his spare time, Henry collects erotic art and performs practical jokes and stunts.
June Bloom smiled nervously. June is the homemaker par excellence; her practice of the culinary art is finely developed (though somewhat specialized). She likes to think of herself as "messy, but not dirty", and indeed a tour of the Bloom domicile reveals a home in the state of controlled chaos -- books and papers scattered hither and thither, but the kitchen and bathrooms are scrupulously clean.
Henry and June met as students in Paris, where they made it their business to engage in torrid sex in as many places as possible: Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower, the Opera, the Louvre, and on each subway line, among other places.
Molly Bloom rarely wears a dress, and she looks slightly uncomfortable, but smiles nevertheless. Ordinarily, she wears a shirt, pants and nothing else; she is sleek, gorgeous and completely blond, as every art student knows. She is passionate about Beethoven and little else other than karate, in which she is a black belt. At sixteen, Molly is totally focused, and shy. Roderick is her longtime friend and soulmate -- they were born two weeks apart, have attended school together from Kindergarten, and they communicate almost wordlessly. Are they more than friends, or will they ever be more than friends? Time will tell.
Mary, smiling and outgoing, is the good daughter. Kind to children, the elderly and small animals, Mary likes to help her mother around the house. She goes to great lengths to proclaim her commitment to morality and "abstinence only". Recently, she signed a pledge to maintain her virginity until marriage, and collected a $100 prize from the National Virginity Society. However, since her recent deflowering in the back of a minivan owned by a good-looking but nameless young man from Stapleton, Mary has developed a taste for secret and slightly dangerous sex -- dangerous for her partners, that is, since Mary is just shy of fifteen.
Some people might consider Mary a hypocrite. In Beauneville, though, there's a name for hypocrisy: it's called "manners".
Margaret does not smile for the camera. She is twelve years old, and she is the quiet daughter. Rarely speaking to anyone outside the family, Margaret is a brilliant logician, solver of crossword puzzles and black belt sodoku expert. Her teachers think that she will either invent cold fusion in a test tube or go insane.
Catherine waves to the camera, and so does Mr. Fuzzums. Catherine is ten years old, the youngest, and always get whatever she wants. Ordinarily, what she wants is quality time with Mr. Fuzzums, with whom she is totally BFF.
The Bloom girls have one thing in common: they all have straight blonde hair, which they wear long.
Click!
The picture taken, Mr. Bloom thanked the photographer, and they all walked to the Red Trolley Diner for Sunday brunch. They sat in a big booth and chatted while they waited for their food.
Molly couldn't wait to get out of the Sunday clothes and get back to the Bosendorfer.
Mary wondered if Mrs. Peacock was okay, and shivered slightly as she thought about what she did last night in the back seat of a 1954 DeSoto parked near the Mill Pond.
Margaret thought about Touchard's approach to the menage problem in mathematics.
Catherine hugged Mr. Fuzzums.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
An August Saturday
In the morning, Megan Cupcake, who is redheaded, buxom and bubbly, arose from her bed, opened her secret detailed journal and wrote furiously about the previous evening.
Roderick bounded out of bed, ran downstairs to the kitchen for some scrapple and applesauce, then off to Mill Pond. A hot saturday in August. Perfect for canoeing. Roderick figured the boathouse would be busy.
Molly Bloom slept until 7:30. She woke, stretched, stepped out of bed, stretched again, then threw on her gi and ran to the dojo for karate class.
Mary Bloom, who is the good daughter, helped Mrs. Bloom cook and clean the house. Then she ran next door to Mrs. Peacock's house. Mrs. Peacock is quite up in years and has a hard time managing . Mary made breakfast, and cleaned the house; she then helped Mrs. Peacock to the sun room, sat and read aloud from Elsie Dinsmore novels. Mrs. Peacock beamed. "You're so good to me, you remind me of Elsie Dinsmore". Mary blushed.
Margaret Bloom, the quiet daughter, spent the morning doing sodoku, at which she is devilishly good.
Catherine Bloom spent some quality time with Mr. Fuzzums.
In her backyard, Bibi lounged naked in the sun, in a lounge chair. Thanks to the hedge surrounding the Ericson property, Bibi has complete privacy from prying eyes, except for those in the second or third floors of the several surrounding homes.
Betsy Flapper put the finishing touches on the Canoeing issue of Slut! magazine. Actually, she did no such thing. Members of her entourage did the actual work, while Betsy camped out at the Cafe Venice and supervised. The latest issue features timely and relevant content for sluts who want to canoe. Examples include:
-- Waterproofing Your iPad
-- Sex in a Canoe: How to Kama Your Sutra and Not Get Wet
-- Jeweling Your Vijayjay
That last topic has nothing to do with canoeing, Betsy just loves this new trend.
Natasha and Henry took turns drawing each other in the nude. Natasha was no longer concerned about "artist's courtesy".
At Zeppelin Drugs, Katie Zeppelin restocked the dental floss.
Knuckles slept.
As soon as Molly got home from karate, she sat at the Bosendorfer and started her scales.
Mrs. Peacock fell asleep midway through Elsie in Nantucket. Mary covered her with the afghan and went home to help Mrs. Bloom make dinner.
Bibi tired of sunbathing, threw on a shirt and shorts and walked to Mill Pond to see Roderick. She arrived during a slow period, and Roderick was happy to chat.
Megan Cupcake needed a few items at Zeppelin Drug, and some ammunition from the hardware store. She walked to Zeppelin's first, and chatted for awhile with Katie. She carried her Glock. As she left the drugstore, she saw Sarah Flapper park her enormous SUV with reckless disregard for the fenders of adjacent vehicles.
At quitting time, Roderick helped Mr. Armstrong stow the canoes. Bibi was still hanging around. Roderick invited her over for dinner.
Meanwhile, at the Blooms, Mrs. Bloom served Tofu Surprise. After dinner, Molly returned to the piano to work on the Hammerklavier, Margaret challenged Mr. Bloom to a game of chess, Catherine played with Mr. Fuzzums and Mary helped Mrs. Bloom wash the dishes.
When the kitchen was clean, Mary went next door and checked on Mrs. Peacock. She made her something to eat, then helped her upstairs to bed and read aloud from Elsie -- but only for a few minutes, because Mrs. Peacock fell asleep almost immediately.
Mary went downstairs, washed the dishes and put out some food Mrs. Peacock could eat for breakfast. Then, she slipped out and walked briskly through the August evening towards the Mill Pond in search of sex.
Roderick bounded out of bed, ran downstairs to the kitchen for some scrapple and applesauce, then off to Mill Pond. A hot saturday in August. Perfect for canoeing. Roderick figured the boathouse would be busy.
Molly Bloom slept until 7:30. She woke, stretched, stepped out of bed, stretched again, then threw on her gi and ran to the dojo for karate class.
Mary Bloom, who is the good daughter, helped Mrs. Bloom cook and clean the house. Then she ran next door to Mrs. Peacock's house. Mrs. Peacock is quite up in years and has a hard time managing . Mary made breakfast, and cleaned the house; she then helped Mrs. Peacock to the sun room, sat and read aloud from Elsie Dinsmore novels. Mrs. Peacock beamed. "You're so good to me, you remind me of Elsie Dinsmore". Mary blushed.
Margaret Bloom, the quiet daughter, spent the morning doing sodoku, at which she is devilishly good.
Catherine Bloom spent some quality time with Mr. Fuzzums.
In her backyard, Bibi lounged naked in the sun, in a lounge chair. Thanks to the hedge surrounding the Ericson property, Bibi has complete privacy from prying eyes, except for those in the second or third floors of the several surrounding homes.
Betsy Flapper put the finishing touches on the Canoeing issue of Slut! magazine. Actually, she did no such thing. Members of her entourage did the actual work, while Betsy camped out at the Cafe Venice and supervised. The latest issue features timely and relevant content for sluts who want to canoe. Examples include:
-- Waterproofing Your iPad
-- Sex in a Canoe: How to Kama Your Sutra and Not Get Wet
-- Jeweling Your Vijayjay
That last topic has nothing to do with canoeing, Betsy just loves this new trend.
Natasha and Henry took turns drawing each other in the nude. Natasha was no longer concerned about "artist's courtesy".
At Zeppelin Drugs, Katie Zeppelin restocked the dental floss.
Knuckles slept.
As soon as Molly got home from karate, she sat at the Bosendorfer and started her scales.
Mrs. Peacock fell asleep midway through Elsie in Nantucket. Mary covered her with the afghan and went home to help Mrs. Bloom make dinner.
Bibi tired of sunbathing, threw on a shirt and shorts and walked to Mill Pond to see Roderick. She arrived during a slow period, and Roderick was happy to chat.
Megan Cupcake needed a few items at Zeppelin Drug, and some ammunition from the hardware store. She walked to Zeppelin's first, and chatted for awhile with Katie. She carried her Glock. As she left the drugstore, she saw Sarah Flapper park her enormous SUV with reckless disregard for the fenders of adjacent vehicles.
At quitting time, Roderick helped Mr. Armstrong stow the canoes. Bibi was still hanging around. Roderick invited her over for dinner.
Meanwhile, at the Blooms, Mrs. Bloom served Tofu Surprise. After dinner, Molly returned to the piano to work on the Hammerklavier, Margaret challenged Mr. Bloom to a game of chess, Catherine played with Mr. Fuzzums and Mary helped Mrs. Bloom wash the dishes.
When the kitchen was clean, Mary went next door and checked on Mrs. Peacock. She made her something to eat, then helped her upstairs to bed and read aloud from Elsie -- but only for a few minutes, because Mrs. Peacock fell asleep almost immediately.
Mary went downstairs, washed the dishes and put out some food Mrs. Peacock could eat for breakfast. Then, she slipped out and walked briskly through the August evening towards the Mill Pond in search of sex.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Hammerklavier
And so we return to the narrative where, if the reader will recall, Natasha and Henry lay naked in her bed, where she had successfully lured him the night before; her diaphragm remained in its case in the medicine cabinet. Henry lay with his head on Natasha's stomach, tracking his fingers along her left thigh.
"What's this?" he asked, pointing to the little mark on the inner part of her thigh.
"It's nothing", said Natasha, instinctively covering the spot with her hand.
Henry pushed her hand aside and looked closely. "It's a tattoo!", he said, reading: "K.."
"Oh no", thought Natasha. She felt her world collapsing.
Henry was stunned. "You ran with the KulturPunks!"
Natasha buried her head in her pillow. "Don't hate me!" she cried.
"Why would I do that?", Henry responded. "Look at this." He pointed to the tiny KulturPunks tattoo on his forearm.
Natasha lifted her head from her pillow and looked. She was astonished. "You're a KulturPunk too!" she cried.
"Indeed", said Henry. "And I have devoted my life to pursuing the sublime and picturesque. Will you join me?"
"I will!" Natasha exclaimed, hugging him.
Henry looked into Natasha's eyes. "Let's have a baby!"
"Um..OK" said Natasha. She thought about whether or not to tell Henry that they had already taken steps in that direction; on reflection, she decided to make that her little secret.
"If it's a boy, we will call him Felix", said Henry.
"And if it's a girl, we will call her Fanny", said Natasha.
"And if it's fraternal twins, we will call them Felix and Fanny", said Henry.
"What if it's identical twins?" asked Natasha.
Henry agreed that was a poser.
Meanwhile, Molly Bloom banged away on the fugue from Beethoven's great Hammerklavier sonata; Mary Bloom had a brief but secret rendezvous; and Roderick slipped away from the "bowling party" at the Stapleton Bowl-A-Drome with Megan Cupcake.
"What's this?" he asked, pointing to the little mark on the inner part of her thigh.
"It's nothing", said Natasha, instinctively covering the spot with her hand.
Henry pushed her hand aside and looked closely. "It's a tattoo!", he said, reading: "K.."
"Oh no", thought Natasha. She felt her world collapsing.
Henry was stunned. "You ran with the KulturPunks!"
Natasha buried her head in her pillow. "Don't hate me!" she cried.
"Why would I do that?", Henry responded. "Look at this." He pointed to the tiny KulturPunks tattoo on his forearm.
Natasha lifted her head from her pillow and looked. She was astonished. "You're a KulturPunk too!" she cried.
"Indeed", said Henry. "And I have devoted my life to pursuing the sublime and picturesque. Will you join me?"
"I will!" Natasha exclaimed, hugging him.
Henry looked into Natasha's eyes. "Let's have a baby!"
"Um..OK" said Natasha. She thought about whether or not to tell Henry that they had already taken steps in that direction; on reflection, she decided to make that her little secret.
"If it's a boy, we will call him Felix", said Henry.
"And if it's a girl, we will call her Fanny", said Natasha.
"And if it's fraternal twins, we will call them Felix and Fanny", said Henry.
"What if it's identical twins?" asked Natasha.
Henry agreed that was a poser.
Meanwhile, Molly Bloom banged away on the fugue from Beethoven's great Hammerklavier sonata; Mary Bloom had a brief but secret rendezvous; and Roderick slipped away from the "bowling party" at the Stapleton Bowl-A-Drome with Megan Cupcake.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Henry
The KulturPunks phenomenon never really caught on in Beauneville, because the parents and teachers of Beauneville tolerate culture. To understand why, consider the case of Henry Witherspoon.
One day, Henry Witherspoon read about KulturPunks in the New York Times. After reading about Romanticism in Wikipedia (the repository of all knowledge) he decided to devote his life to the pursuit of the sublime and picturesque.
"Mom! Dad!", he shouted when he returned home after school, "I want to devote my life to the pursuit of the sublime and picturesque!"
"That's nice, dear", said Mrs. Witherspoon, as she knitted a sock. Mrs. Witherspoon's hobby is the knitting of socks. She is quite skilled at this, and persistent in her hobby, and as a result the Witherspoon family has many pairs of socks, lovely socks, in many bright colors.
"Excellent choice, son", said Mr. Witherspoon, lighting his pipe. "I'm proud of you. Let's go down to the Stapleton and get some art supplies."
Mr. Witherspoon fired up his dark green 1951 Nash Statesman 2-door and they motored down the Cidertown Road to Stapleton. There, Henry bought easels, paper, sketchbooks, oils, acrylics and all sorts of other art supplies.
Returning home, Henry set about drawing and sketching with rare fervor. Everything in sight, he sketched: chipmunks in the garden, mushrooms growing in the back yard, the old cider mill down by the mill pond, whatever.
But his greatest talent was drawing people. Everyone commented on this; Henry's portraits seemed to have a life of their own, as if the warmth and energy of the subject radiated from within.
Mr. and Mrs. Witherspoon encouraged this. "Henry", they would say, "we encourage you to pursue the sublime and picturesque".
Mrs. Witherspoon knitted extra socks for Henry. "Artists need extra socks", she would say, "to keep their feet warm". Henry had to agree. There was simply no substitute for warm feet when drawing a portrait.
Henry took Mr. Bellini's painting class at Beauneville Latin. He did well in Still Life, and his Landscapes were inspired, in the manner of Thomas Cole. One day, however, the class turned to Human Figure; Molly Bloom stepped into the room and with a quick motion her shirt and shorts lay on the floor.
Henry was entranced.
That afternoon, after school, he asked his father to drive him to Stapleton on a secret errand. There, in a tattoo parlor, he had the initials "KP" engraved on his left forearm.
One day, Henry Witherspoon read about KulturPunks in the New York Times. After reading about Romanticism in Wikipedia (the repository of all knowledge) he decided to devote his life to the pursuit of the sublime and picturesque.
"Mom! Dad!", he shouted when he returned home after school, "I want to devote my life to the pursuit of the sublime and picturesque!"
"That's nice, dear", said Mrs. Witherspoon, as she knitted a sock. Mrs. Witherspoon's hobby is the knitting of socks. She is quite skilled at this, and persistent in her hobby, and as a result the Witherspoon family has many pairs of socks, lovely socks, in many bright colors.
"Excellent choice, son", said Mr. Witherspoon, lighting his pipe. "I'm proud of you. Let's go down to the Stapleton and get some art supplies."
Mr. Witherspoon fired up his dark green 1951 Nash Statesman 2-door and they motored down the Cidertown Road to Stapleton. There, Henry bought easels, paper, sketchbooks, oils, acrylics and all sorts of other art supplies.
Returning home, Henry set about drawing and sketching with rare fervor. Everything in sight, he sketched: chipmunks in the garden, mushrooms growing in the back yard, the old cider mill down by the mill pond, whatever.
But his greatest talent was drawing people. Everyone commented on this; Henry's portraits seemed to have a life of their own, as if the warmth and energy of the subject radiated from within.
Mr. and Mrs. Witherspoon encouraged this. "Henry", they would say, "we encourage you to pursue the sublime and picturesque".
Mrs. Witherspoon knitted extra socks for Henry. "Artists need extra socks", she would say, "to keep their feet warm". Henry had to agree. There was simply no substitute for warm feet when drawing a portrait.
Henry took Mr. Bellini's painting class at Beauneville Latin. He did well in Still Life, and his Landscapes were inspired, in the manner of Thomas Cole. One day, however, the class turned to Human Figure; Molly Bloom stepped into the room and with a quick motion her shirt and shorts lay on the floor.
Henry was entranced.
That afternoon, after school, he asked his father to drive him to Stapleton on a secret errand. There, in a tattoo parlor, he had the initials "KP" engraved on his left forearm.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Grundge District
Mr. and Mrs. Zemlinsky lazed in the nude on the veranda as Enrico, the houseboy served drinks. Mrs. Zemlinsky eyeballed Enrico lustily.
"Dahling, have you noticed a difference in Natasha lately?", she asked, without taking her eyes off Enrico.
Mr. Zemlinsky did not look up from his laptop. "No", he grunted. "Why?"
"I don't know. She spends an awful lot of time in that studio we bought her."
"Nothing to worry about. She's probably having drunken sex parties in there. Perfectly normal".
Mrs. Zemlinsky sighed. "I guess you're right".
About an hour later, after a brief but intense roll in the hay with Enrico, Mrs. Zemlinksy threw on her bathrobe and padded down to Natasha's studio in search of more masculine attention of the underage variety. Furtively, she peered through the window. What she saw shocked her.
Mrs. Zemlinsky stormed into the studio. "Young lady, what is going on in here!"
Natasha cringed and tried to hide her painting. "Ummm...nothing...we were just getting ready to party."
Mrs. Zemlinsky stomped over, grabbed Natasha by the wrist and stared at the painting, which was a gorgeous landscape in the style of Corot. "And what do you call this?" she demanded.
Natasha looked as if she wanted to disappear. "Um....it's just a little painting...".
Mrs. Zemlinsky glared at the other teens in the studio. One of them, Tess Durber-Ville, seemed to be hiding something under her shirt. Mrs. Zemlinsky grabbed her by the throat and pulled her to her feet. "What's that you've got there?" she demanded, and tugged at Tess' shirt. A textbook fell to the floor. "What are you doing?"
Tess was about to cry. "Studying?" she said, in a wobbly voice.
The two boys in the room bolted for the door. Mrs. Zemlinsky pointed at Tess. "Get out of my house! And if I see you with my daughter again your father will hear from our lawyer!". Tess scurried out.
Mrs. Zemlinsky turned to Natasha and grabbed her arm. "Wait until your father hears about this!"
Natasha fell to her knees. "No! Mama! Please! Don't tell Daddy!".
Mrs. Zemlinsky glared. "Go to your room! You're grounded forever!".
Natasha ran to her room, closed the door and rummaged for her sketch book. She sat cross-legged on her bed and sketched.
The next day, she went to a tattoo parlor in the Grundge District.
"Dahling, have you noticed a difference in Natasha lately?", she asked, without taking her eyes off Enrico.
Mr. Zemlinsky did not look up from his laptop. "No", he grunted. "Why?"
"I don't know. She spends an awful lot of time in that studio we bought her."
"Nothing to worry about. She's probably having drunken sex parties in there. Perfectly normal".
Mrs. Zemlinsky sighed. "I guess you're right".
About an hour later, after a brief but intense roll in the hay with Enrico, Mrs. Zemlinksy threw on her bathrobe and padded down to Natasha's studio in search of more masculine attention of the underage variety. Furtively, she peered through the window. What she saw shocked her.
Mrs. Zemlinsky stormed into the studio. "Young lady, what is going on in here!"
Natasha cringed and tried to hide her painting. "Ummm...nothing...we were just getting ready to party."
Mrs. Zemlinsky stomped over, grabbed Natasha by the wrist and stared at the painting, which was a gorgeous landscape in the style of Corot. "And what do you call this?" she demanded.
Natasha looked as if she wanted to disappear. "Um....it's just a little painting...".
Mrs. Zemlinsky glared at the other teens in the studio. One of them, Tess Durber-Ville, seemed to be hiding something under her shirt. Mrs. Zemlinsky grabbed her by the throat and pulled her to her feet. "What's that you've got there?" she demanded, and tugged at Tess' shirt. A textbook fell to the floor. "What are you doing?"
Tess was about to cry. "Studying?" she said, in a wobbly voice.
The two boys in the room bolted for the door. Mrs. Zemlinsky pointed at Tess. "Get out of my house! And if I see you with my daughter again your father will hear from our lawyer!". Tess scurried out.
Mrs. Zemlinsky turned to Natasha and grabbed her arm. "Wait until your father hears about this!"
Natasha fell to her knees. "No! Mama! Please! Don't tell Daddy!".
Mrs. Zemlinsky glared. "Go to your room! You're grounded forever!".
Natasha ran to her room, closed the door and rummaged for her sketch book. She sat cross-legged on her bed and sketched.
The next day, she went to a tattoo parlor in the Grundge District.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Natasha's Seduction
Before she was infected with culture, Natasha Zemlinsky was a normal healthy slutty teen at Pacific High. She had more than four hundred Facebook friends, and more than a thousand Twitter followers. Thanks to grade inflation, she was an honor student (together with all of her classmates), though she never cracked a textbook.
One day, Natasha walked down the long corridor of Pacific High on her way to an underage drinking party when one of her Facebook friends, Mitsy Buffalo, beckoned to her from a dark alcove.
"Pssst, Natasha, over here!"
Natasha hesitated. Frankly, she thought Mitsy was a little odd lately. But it's an unwritten rule of Facebook friends -- one should never decline an invitation from friends in dark alcoves.
"What's up?" asked Natasha. She wrinkled her nose. Mitsy was wearing classic well-made clothes, quite a contrast to Natasha's "Ima Ho" style halter type and short pants. Not good. Could be trouble.
"Come in here!" whispered Mitsy. She grabbed Natasha's arm and pulled her into a small room. Natasha protested, but Mitsy was strong and wouldn't let go until Natasha was completely inside the room. The door closed with a bang, and Mitsy stood in front of it. Natasha was trapped.
She looked around the room. The blinds were drawn. On the far side of the room, three students played one of Mendelssohn's trios for piano, violin and cello. A few other students sat on the floor and listened raptly. Several other students seemed entranced by some original paintings on the wall.
"Wait a minute!", exclaimed Natasha, "you're...you're..."
"KulturPunks!" said Mitsy proudly, standing close to Natasha and invading her personal space. "And here you are! So...are you with us, or are you with them?" Mitsy spit out the word.
Natasha bolted for the door, but Mitsy and two boys grabbed her and dragged her kicking and screaming into the middle of the room. "No!" shouted Natasha, "I won't listen! I won't listen!".
She struggled violently, but the boys were too strong, and they pinned her to the floor. Desparately, she tried to escape, but Mitsy and the boys were determined, and they held her fast. Soon, she realized that struggle was hopeless, and she gave up.
At that moment, she realized that the music sounded nice. She listened.
From that moment, Natasha was a KulturPunk.
One day, Natasha walked down the long corridor of Pacific High on her way to an underage drinking party when one of her Facebook friends, Mitsy Buffalo, beckoned to her from a dark alcove.
"Pssst, Natasha, over here!"
Natasha hesitated. Frankly, she thought Mitsy was a little odd lately. But it's an unwritten rule of Facebook friends -- one should never decline an invitation from friends in dark alcoves.
"What's up?" asked Natasha. She wrinkled her nose. Mitsy was wearing classic well-made clothes, quite a contrast to Natasha's "Ima Ho" style halter type and short pants. Not good. Could be trouble.
"Come in here!" whispered Mitsy. She grabbed Natasha's arm and pulled her into a small room. Natasha protested, but Mitsy was strong and wouldn't let go until Natasha was completely inside the room. The door closed with a bang, and Mitsy stood in front of it. Natasha was trapped.
She looked around the room. The blinds were drawn. On the far side of the room, three students played one of Mendelssohn's trios for piano, violin and cello. A few other students sat on the floor and listened raptly. Several other students seemed entranced by some original paintings on the wall.
"Wait a minute!", exclaimed Natasha, "you're...you're..."
"KulturPunks!" said Mitsy proudly, standing close to Natasha and invading her personal space. "And here you are! So...are you with us, or are you with them?" Mitsy spit out the word.
Natasha bolted for the door, but Mitsy and two boys grabbed her and dragged her kicking and screaming into the middle of the room. "No!" shouted Natasha, "I won't listen! I won't listen!".
She struggled violently, but the boys were too strong, and they pinned her to the floor. Desparately, she tried to escape, but Mitsy and the boys were determined, and they held her fast. Soon, she realized that struggle was hopeless, and she gave up.
At that moment, she realized that the music sounded nice. She listened.
From that moment, Natasha was a KulturPunk.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Bildung
Part Two of CNN's documentary special on KulturPunks opened on an ominous note:
As the KulturPunks phenomenon spread, it morphed and split. While KulturPunk purists continued to believe passionately in Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy (and his sister, Fanny), others advocated a broader acceptance of Early German Romanticism so long as the spirit of Bildung was upheld. "We don't want reality, we want Bildung!", they chanted.
In California, an even more relaxed form of KulturPunkism took hold, which celebrated the Pre-Raphaelites. This is the crowd Natasha fell in with. And when she fell, she fell hard.
Voice of Anderson Cooper (over animated map of the United States, with a black stain spreading relentlessly): It started in Bedford Glen, but soon reports came from one town after another as parents and teachers discovered to their horror that their teens were infected with culture.
In New York, a theatre class declined to perform Urinetown, instead choosing to stage Shakespeare's Coriolanus.
In Oregon, an art class abandoned community organizing and learned how to draw.
Students in several states dressed nicely for school.
Lisbeth Whipple-Poodle is a sophomore at Bill Gates High School in Connecticut. She is active in cheerleading, student government and sex. We interviewed her at an underage drinking club.
Cooper: What do you think of the KulturPunks?
Whipple-Poodle: Um, they are, like, you know, wierd, you know, and stuff. Umm....I knew this one girl, like, one of them, you know, and she actually buys her clothes at JCPenney, can you believe it? I mean, she shops with her mom and stuff.
Cooper: Why does that bother you?
Whipple-Poodle: Um, you know, like, it makes the rest of us look bad, you know. I mean, if some teens actually study and stuff it makes it harder for normal teens like me to, you know, get into a good college. Um, I have, like, a right to get into a good college without working hard. Why should these KulturPunks get good grades just because, like, they do their homework?
Wherever the KulturPunks surfaced, they terrorized their schoolmates. Writers ruthlessly parodied athletes in student literary magazines. Musical theatre troupes targeted student government with adaptations of Gilbert and Sullivan, cleverly substituting the names of their victims for the original lyrics in "As Some Day It May Happen". Artists created unflattering caricatures of rich and stupid students. And geeks published the sexual activities of their peers, together with pictures and ratings.
Mary Mackle-Thwopple is a Junior at Barack Obama High School in Snoot, New York. She is a varsity athlete, class president, rich, stupid and relentlessly promiscuous. We interviewed her at an undisclosed location:
Cooper: What was it like to be targeted by literary magazines, musical theatre, unflattering caricatures and teen sexpose websites?
Mackle-Thwopple: It was horrible. (Sobbing).
As the KulturPunks phenomenon spread, it morphed and split. While KulturPunk purists continued to believe passionately in Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy (and his sister, Fanny), others advocated a broader acceptance of Early German Romanticism so long as the spirit of Bildung was upheld. "We don't want reality, we want Bildung!", they chanted.
In California, an even more relaxed form of KulturPunkism took hold, which celebrated the Pre-Raphaelites. This is the crowd Natasha fell in with. And when she fell, she fell hard.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Manifesto
Returning from the Mall At Bedford Glen to her McMansion on Big House Lane, Mrs. Margaret Schwarznagel found a printed flyer tucked into her mailbox. She unfolded the document and read:
"Aigheeeeee" screamed Mrs. Schwarznagel. "Hate Crime!".
Facebook, Twitter and blogs lit up as every parent in Bedford Glen turned to a preferred social medium and posted about the Manifesto, a copy of which was inserted into every mailbox in town.
That night, CNN ran a special on The American Dream Under Siege, hosted by Anderson Cooper:
Meanwhile, as CNN aired its special, there were already signs that Bedford Glen was not the only place in America living in terror of culture.
We ask for challenge; you give us Diversity Training.
We ask for music; you give us Lady Gaga.
We ask for Shakespeare; you give us The Vagina Monologues.
We ask for hope and change; you give us demagoguery, corruption and pork.
We ask for dialogue; you give us Facebook.
We ask for romance; you give us condoms.
We ask for classic well-made clothing; you give us $300 jeans.
We ask for comfort food; you give us brie.
We ask for culture; you give us Yanni, geriatric James Taylor concerts and dead white men like John Lennon and Jim Morrison.
We are your worst nightmare.
We are the KulturPunks.
"Aigheeeeee" screamed Mrs. Schwarznagel. "Hate Crime!".
Facebook, Twitter and blogs lit up as every parent in Bedford Glen turned to a preferred social medium and posted about the Manifesto, a copy of which was inserted into every mailbox in town.
That night, CNN ran a special on The American Dream Under Siege, hosted by Anderson Cooper:
Anderson Cooper, voice over video montage of Bedford Glen: On the surface, Bedford Glen looks like the American Dream. A robust and growing city government with subsidies and handouts for everyone, deserving or not. Mortgages freely available, even to those who can't possibly make the payments. Each day, a quaint and cozy Cape Cod home is flattened to make way for another McMansion. Schools rich with diversity programs, so that no grievance is uncelebrated, and where no child is left behind because kids who can't make the cut are thrown out of school and forced to move to another district.
Under the surface, though, there is something dark and sinister -- so dark and sinister that we cannot describe it accurately without horrifying our viewers. Suffice to say that the thing we are talking about is dark, very dark, and sinister, too.
Signs of dark and sinister trouble first showed up at Bedford Glen High School. Butch Bigfoot is captain of Bedford Glen's varsity football team, the Native Americans. We interviewed him at home with his parents at their McMansion on Colossus Drive.
Cooper: When did you first notice trouble?
Bigfoot: At the pep rally last fall. We were all geared up to beat the Tofu Tattlers -- they're the champs from last year -- and we run into the gym for the pep rally all fired up and stuff and expecting the crowd to roar and break out into the Native American Defensive Tomahawk Feint, but there was, like hardly anybody there except our Moms and Dads and girlfriends.
Mrs. Bigfoot: You mean your hos.
Bigfoot: Right, our hos. I keep forgetting. Mom and Dad think I need more street cred.
Cooper: Go on.
Bigfoot: So that was it. Kids didn't show up at the pep rally, and we lost to the Tofu Tattlers 62-0.
Cooper: You think there's a connection?
Bigfoot: Well, yeah, I mean we jocks totally need slavish adulation from the lesser beings at school, or we can't function. It's part of the wiring, you know.
Cooper, voice over credits: On our next segment, dark and sinister things going viral.
Meanwhile, as CNN aired its special, there were already signs that Bedford Glen was not the only place in America living in terror of culture.
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