Franken leads +225 (+21 and +14 of the "Nauen61" the Elections Contest Court has ordered into the "Ready to Count" pile at the the Secretary of State's office; all these voters have indicated they voted for Franken)= +260.
No orders or decisions from the Elections Contest Court as of this morning.
So as we wait, lets speculate a bit: what motions does the Court have yet to rule on? Depending on how strict or relaxed a standard for absentee ballots, how many ballots might be at stake in the court orders? Is there a viable path for Coleman from the MN to the federal courts via "equal protection?"
And, by request, a first few chapters from a novel over at Literary Corner, all of which is right past the Orange fold......
UPDATED: As promised, with chapter 4. #5 wouldn't fit.
The last of the filings from the lawyers were turned in to the Election Contest Court on Tuesday so they've had the case in toto for 5 days.
I don't think they are resting much on weekends but I hope they get some kind of down time. Judge Marben has 3 children; has Mrs. Marben brought the family for a field trip to the big city to see Dad? Its a long haul from Thief River Falls to St. Paul...... Judge Hayden's husband is a judge too so he knows what she's going through; wonder if he's driven in from St. Cloud? Or has Elizabeth gone home weekends?...... Judge Reilly is here in town but a big fat trial like this has to be as bad as Wednesday night Lenten Services, Holy Week and Easter in a 3 point parish in Malta, MT for a solo pastor: its huge and wearing.
Now to keep up the DailyKos reputation of being "like reading the newspaper days in advance" I put it to you on 2 or 3 things.
The Unresolved
1) Has someone amassed the motions and issues from both Franken and Coleman that are STILL UNRESOLVED? The biggest one I know of is the Franken Motion to Dismiss from March 6. It has 14 points and Coleman basically ceded 10 of them, so the ECC could easily grant those 10 without really affecting anything but it would knock down part of their "to do" list. OTOH maybe they are writing their decision in such a way that covers all 14 items and so renders the motion moot (is that the way to say it?) by virtue of the decision of the whole case?
But what else is out there hanging fire? Could the court knock off some of these first or will they fold them into a final decision?
Which Ballots by What Standard?
2) Does one of the spreadsheet masters have a collection of absentee ballots the court has to rule upon? They have already ordered 35 "Nauen61" ballots onto the "Ready to COunt" pile in the Sec. of State's Office, and 12 others in a summary judgment early on.
But beyond these I remember (rightly?) the court saying they will rule on each voter who testified-- which total how many called by each side?
And then there are the 252 Franken moved for and the 1360 Coleman delivered in a used box with the crossed out stencil "Rove Shredders; Serving the Vice-President for 8 years". Those are the 2 big batches but there are other smaller collections. the 1360 may have subsets.
So best guesses spreadsheeters: IF a "strict compliance" rule, which ones are IN as submitted by each side, or from the remaining Nauen61? If a "pretty strict compliance" rule (minor stuff like ballot and witnessing dates don't match BUT the law is silent on the need to match these) which ones MIGHT break how? And then if we get out to the "substantial compliant" standard of Coleman (I think unlikely with this court, but at least to explore the territory) is there anything to suggest Norm has a chance (given how absentee broke generally, or in particular counties?)
You lay them out and we'll kibbitz, but a list would be nice so we can all keep score when the decisions and orders start coming--this week I think pretty likely.
Will the State Courts End It?
3) There has been a LOT of back and forth among the lawyers and wannabes around here on where this might go from here in the judicial system (hopefully not far.) (And I must say to Clem yeobright and Allen03 that you 2 have taken it to the border of the personal---- and NOT crossed that border, so good for both of you! You left at rather jocular "personal ads" yesterday and all of us are better by benefit of both your comments that you both fulfilled that law school commandment to present a vigorous defense of your position. Well done, both of you!)
As far as I can make out an appeal to the MN Supreme Court is dang near automatic since, as was very helpfully pointed out yesterday, any ECC decision has to be appeal-able SOMEWHERE in the state.
The real discussions have been basically if it can/will go past that? Or are Justice Alan Page and the MN Supreme Court Justices really a defensive line that shuts down the run inside, outside and overwhelms on the pass rush?
I keep reading of course the losing side (I'm going WAY out on a limb here and presuming Coleman) needs to have GROUNDS and that the 2 paths beyond MN are either a direct move (appeal) from the highest state court to the US Supreme Court OR basically starting a new/"De novo"(not an appeal) case at the federal district level. (I may not be using "de novo" correctly; perhaps in its Latin sense but the legal sense may have other connotations. Nonetheless the "newness" factor seems to be big at the federal district level.)
The only possible grounds in law seems to be the famous "Equal Protection" of the 14th Amendment, although there may be others. (Team Coleman hasn't come off as particularly creative or incisive. On the other hand some of them may be lurking here and we don't want to give them any help either.) underwhelm offered a succinct comment here:
There is a way into federal district court for Coleman. He has framed up two separate equal protection arguments. One concerns the operation of the ECC itself, and the other concerns the conduct of county and municipal election officials during the general election.
The first could be considered and decided by the MN S. Ct. in the appeal of this case, and would only be appealable by writ of certiorari to SCOTUS. The second, however, may not be decided by the ECC because of its limited jurisdiction. If it cannot be decided by the ECC, then the claim survives to be asserted in a separate lawsuit.
Coleman could choose to bring it in a state or federal court. He would be foolish to bring it to a state court, which would undoubtedly be inclined to defer to the MN S. Ct. and the ECC's findings concerning the regularity of the election. The federal 8th circuit would be a more friendly venue for him, thereby giving birth to his collateral action in federal district court.
by underwhelm
Without getting too technical, and leading us gently forward, could some of you lay out some homey explanations of what might or might not be on the table here?
I'm thinking of when the Norm credit card scandal broke. The computer people and credit people were aghast and were raving about "how could they stick a TAR thingy in an Unzipped doohickey on a root server alongside the turnips and other roots?" We all appreciated the outrage but it helped A LOT when some folks started translating from Geek to Homey ("Norm left the front door open on his house and is now complaining somebody walked in. Then his people laid credit card security numbers by the fireplace like a plate of cookies for Santa with a tag, "Help yourself". Now they turn around and call anyone who DID help themselves "thieves and hackers.") THEN we all got it and and could get with the tech types and say with sincere outrage, "They did WHAT?"
Well how about here? Equal Protection--- any impact on the ECC decision making? The MN Supreme Court appeal? Is it a vehicle to get into federal court (and how likely) or is it a '79 Pinto up on blocks rusting in a Nebraska Panhandle barnyard?
_______________________________
Well I hope that will let you have, in a fine phrase from yesterday, a bone or two to chew on while we wait. Thats the latest from yust southeast of Lake Wobegon.
Shalom.
_________________________
(Skip to comments if you would. The following is in reply to requests but has nothing to do with the MN Senate recount.)
PS. SusanL143 and others who tipped in the comments asked for some chapters of my novel Encampment to pass the time. And nathguy asked me to put up the Revised Standard Version of the query letter. (It has not yet landed an agent BUT the rejections are personal instead of form letter and have a common thread of "I'm not the right agent for this" which is a new note.)
Soooooo.... I'll move over here to the recliner in front of the bookcase, put on the smoking jacket with silk lapels and tie an ascot loosely at the throat.....
Welcome to Literary Corner. Today we look at the opening chapters of a piece of historical fiction from a new novelist. We hope you'll bear in mind that while serializing a novel has a good history behind it this work was never intended to be presented that way. (Leather bound with full color maps and vellum end papers was more what I had in mind and the autograph, "Delighted to sign your copy like you signed mine, Barack Obama")
As with all new authors we at Literary Corner realize the work, not yet published, raw and not professionally edited, will have some rough edges and boring parts (hopefully limited to no more than 40 pages at a time). We've been informed the work has had 5 full re-writes and of course the writer's endless temptation to tinker. I informed the novelist that we here at Literary Corner also know Hegel's maxim, (something like) "To re-write someone else's words is great temptation."
(OOOooh, we are discovering a HUGE difference between BODY text and preview. Paragraph indents are missing so I'll have to put them in manually....)
So with a deep breath......
First, the latest draft of the query letter:
Dear Agent:
While the election of Barack Obama signals a watershed in American history, it is a turning point that could have happened nearly a century before. In July,1913 54000 white Civil War veterans gathered for a week-long reunion at Gettysburg. In my novel Encampment history is rewritten to imagine what might have happened if 5000 black veterans had dared to attend. What if black, white, blue and gray had battled through their hatreds and regrets, laid down their hurts and found a way to heal history? A post-racial message that unites diverse Americans in a quilt of common heritage could have been pieced together in 1913.
Savannah sergeant Zachariah Hampton still marches often, drinks hard, and believes blacks should stay in a place called Jim Crow. Jim Crow’s place smells like the slavery Lucius Robinson ran away from 50 years ago and his heart and dignity are worn down to rags. Retired Vermont abolitionist Calvin Salisbury laments as the triumph of his youth is shredded by a national bigotry that leaves the sacrifices of his comrades in tatters.
These three men are among the thousands at Gettysburg who share food, drink and memories while burying the ghosts of slavery and fury and who could have led America beyond the divisions of section and race. Marian Anderson sings, W.E.B. DuBois and Woodrow Wilson speak, but it is the white-haired veterans who throw off the burdens of their past, turn away from the violence of the Klan and the rope, and join a common struggle to build hope for all Americans. The Reunion was a massive event: 100,000 civilian spectators came each day on 47 trains, by wagon, auto and on foot. Hundreds of domestic and foreign reporters kept the telegraph office in continuous operation. A multi-sided, cross-racial reunion could have transformed America a century before a President Obama.
I believe Encampment (108,000 words with Michener-like detail) will find an audience among war veterans and their families, African-Americans, men looking for fiction beyond action thrillers, seniors, Civil War aficionados, Southerners, and history buffs.
I am a published author, (Generations of Faith, Alban Press, 2002) and my blog diaries at DailyKos get hundreds of daily views but this is my first foray into fiction. I have enclosed the first ten pages from the manuscript./ synopsis/ first 3000 words Thank you for your time in considering representing Encampment. I would be delighted to send either a partial or full manuscript upon request. I look forward to hearing from you.
Encampment All rights reserved. Copyright 2007 by WineRev Reproducing any but brief passages for review without permission will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. (Lillehaug will be available in a few weeks.)
A Note to Readers
Three matters may help readers enjoy this story.
First is the use of the English language. Set in early 20th century America travel was more limited and local speech patterns were stronger so American regional differences were sharper than today. My Southerners will often use "y’all" and greet the day with "G’Mawnin." Before noon my New Englanders wish each other "G’mannin’" and in the evenings warm their hands over a "fiyah."
Second is racial language. I have used terms common around 1912 to refer to people of color and these terms, with the opening exception, had different weights than today. Starting at the bottom, "nigger" was and is a vile term for insult and denigration. "Negro" was only marginally better but usually was a synonym for "slave," so freed people avoided it while racists usually relished it. "Darkie" and "dusky" could be fairly neutral but were typically used in a casually or deliberately negative way. "Black" was quite rare, usually paired as a simple opposite of "white" and rather neutral, seen in W.E.B. DuBois’ "Souls of Black Folks" (1903). "Colored" was by far the broadest, most acceptable term. James Weldon Johnston’s "Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man" (1912) and the organization "National Association for the Advancement of Colored People" (NAACP) (founded in 1909) are representative. "Ethiopian" was the most positive term typically used in educated circles like "Slavic" or "Oriental." In social conversation it was complimentary, positive and considered descriptive.
Finally, my story is one of historical fiction. I enjoy this genre but I am somewhat frustrated at times not knowing where the history leaves off and the fiction begins. One must become a researcher to hunt down some of the facts of a given period, which seems an unfair burden to the curious reader. I have therefore included a chronology of dates and historical facts at the end in order to save the reader this chore. Whether I have used the facts presented well and moved them around occasionally as needed to make a better story is for the reader to judge.
Chapter 1
Savannah, late spring, 1912
A scowl draped over the words, "What you doin’ in this part o’ town...boy?" but no answer came.
From inside a loathing came, "Iffin’ this was a ratt run country you’d be showin’ me yo’ massa’s pass."
This time he echoed back, "Iffin’ this was a ratt run country......."
He noticed the pavement was pretty warm, even when it clawed his palm and smeared itself with his blood. That hurt.
The toe of the black, worn-down brogan hurt too when it kicked his ribs.
Another pair of worn brogans came up, brown this time, and pulled the black pair around. "Hold on there, Dooley."
"You niggah-lovin’ Longstreetin’ blue-belly!"
Now came two pairs, a brown pinstriped cuff above some handsome men’s half-boots, and a black pointy toe peeking out from under a dark green hem just above the sidewalk.
Brown brogans: "Simmer down, Dooley. Ain’t fitten’ pushin’ anybody ‘round on the Lord’s Day---’specially with a lady present."
Black brogans turned toward green hem. "Ma’am." Then they stomped away, the heels grinding the pavement, the left one worn down at an odd angle.
Half-boots and green hem passed by together and brown brogans trailed after.
He pulled out an old green kerchief and black fingers pressed it against the pale, bloody palm. After he left the rest of his blood turned dark on the pavement.
.............
The Atlantic breeze ballooned the cigar-fumed drapes toward Zachariah and he sneezed. It stunned him for a moment, but his headache was only grumpy. He bent over again and finished tying his shoes. Then he stood, buttoned his fly and pulled his suspenders over his shoulders. A gray tunic with three gold chevrons on the sleeve and matching pants hung in the open armoire.
He took a deep breath and pulled his door open, but there was no one to face.
"Mawnin’, Mistah Hampton," Alma said, coming in from her backyard visit and tying on a blue check full apron over her puff-sleeved blouse and long, bell-shaped navy blue skirt.
"Mawnin’ Alma."
"Would you like a cup o’ coffee today, suh?" she asked, moving toward the stove. Zachariah wondered at "today." "Yes, thank you kindly."
He took the enameled tin cup out on the front porch and dropped into the rocker. He heard a far-off church bell chime, then another. "Sunday?" He took a sip. Too hot.
He blew on his coffee and got down a slurp, staring at the white uprights of the porch railing. White. Evenly spaced. Ribs? What? No. Back porch steps....white, wet. Went down them. Up them. Minié bullets drumming on....the roof....and his shoulders.....his slicker.
He got down a full gulp and closed his eyes. His stomach protested and he tasted bile in the back of his mouth. Almost gagged. Gagged after the steps.....after a backyard crossing. There’d been a gray door...a gagging smell...cool air blowing on his bare butt...a bit of gray light from a crescent moon cut out. He faintly heard horse hoof clops and motorcar clatter from Jones Street.
Emily and Lee rounded the corner at the end of the block onto Tattnall. Lee Thompson was in a dapper in his brown, pin-striped Sunday suit and matching brown derby. He was almost six feet tall with short, black hair over pale skin. His dark, calm eyes set over angular cheekbones missed little. His wife Emily’s dark green skirt brushed her toes, while her white blouse rose chin-high at the collar. Her flower-trimmed hat shaded both her face and shoulders. Behind them Zachariah could see the bobbing hat of a third figure. Occasionally Lee would say something over his shoulder. Meanwhile the clank of porcelain and silver from indoors announced Alma was laying out Sunday dinner.
Zachariah went to his room, slipped on his dark jacket and watched in the small shaving mirror as his fingers looped on his tie. The face in the mirror showed flowing eyebrows over gray-green eyes, a hawk nose between medium cheekbones and a full silver beard, second-button long.
Back in the kitchen he found Alma peering in the oven. "Alma, I see Lee and Emily comin’ up the street and someone else with ‘em. I ‘spect they’ll be four fo’ dinner today."
"Thank you, suh," Alma said. "I’ve already set an extra place."
"Bully, Alma," approved Zachariah, moving to the door. "Say, did it rain some yesterday?"
"In the mawnin’ it sure did Mistah Hampton. Thunder n’ lightnin’ and the rain beat down fierce for a time and lingered on past noon."
He passed through the hall to the parlor and pulled a Bible off the bookcase. He was settled in a stuffed chair with St. Matthew when the iron gate squeaked open. A moment later Lee held open the front door to let Emily pass. Glancing over the top edge of the page Zachariah saw Peyton Colby’s profile floating over the words, "Blessed are the poor in Spirit."
"Mmmm! Smells like dinner’s ‘bout ready," said Emily. "Lee, why don’t you and Peyton go in the parlor. I’ll send Alma in soon." She turned and called, "Alma? We’re home. Come take my hat. Is everything ready?" Her voice faded toward the kitchen.
Lee hung Peyton’s nondescript bowler on the hat rack next to his own brown crowner. They came in the parlor and stopped short when they saw Zachariah.
"Hello, Zack," Peyton said, stepping over with an outstretched hand. "Oh don’t get up. Sunday ain’t that formal."
"Hullo, Peyton," Zachariah shook hands, then added, "Hello to you too, Lee."
"Readin’ the Good Book I see," Lee commented as both he and Peyton took chairs.
"Yes I am," Zachariah responded. "Sermon on the Mount. Who’s blessed and how they’re blessed. Always gives me a restful feelin’ when I read it." Then he turned. "Peyton, what brings you here today? Were you at First Baptist?"
"Actually I was walkin’ home from Independent Presbyterian when I came ‘cross that Dooley Culpepper pushin’ ‘round some blackie."
"Emily and I saw it too, coming up the street," Lee chimed in. "We were still humming ‘Blest Be the Tie that Binds’ and came across these three old men who should know better. Two of them shoulda had enough fightin’ to last ‘em their whole lives."
"What was it about?" Zachariah asked, although having heard Dooley’s name he had a fair guess.
"Nigh on as I can make out," Peyton answered, "Dooley said somethin’ ‘bout how when things was right, white folks wouldn’t ever need to see dusky faces ‘cept workin’ the fields or keepin’ house. He said, ‘Iffin this was still a ratt-run country..."
Zachariah heard the rest and began to offer, "Well Longstreet would say..." when Alma broke in from the doorway, "Gentlemen, dinner’s ready." Lee gave silent thanks being spared another quote from General James Longstreet, Zachariah’s commander and hero. He hoped this dinner they could stay in the 20th century.
"Oh do say it a bit more grandly, Alma," Emily said from behind her, "Gentlemen, dinner is served!" She started a bit when not only Lee and Peyton but also her father rose and moved to the dining room. As Zachariah passed behind her heading to a side chair, she turned and said evenly, "Glad you could join us, Daddy." He nodded back but dared only look up as high as the cameo brooch standing between her chin and collarbone on the stiff collar. Her dark brown hair was up off her neck and framed her heart-shaped face and hazel eyes.
After grace Colby ventured, "So what was your preacher’s theme today and what did he say about it?" Emily turned back a harsh thought about her father’s absence and said, "Rev. McWilliams preached on ‘Blessed are the peacemakers’ from Matthew chapter 5."
"Do you think he was aiming that at anyone special in the church?" Lee asked sipping his iced tea. Emily arched an eyebrow. "If you mean that set-to in the altar guild and Libby Pocklington...well, he was very careful not to look at any one of them."
"Libby Pocklington is a hard case to look in the eye," Zachariah remarked casually to Peyton, never looking left.
"She happens to be right in this case," Emily answered, seeing only her father’s profile. "There’s no reason for wax paper under the altar candles. That Rachel Collins just doesn’t want to stay after and scrape off the drippings."
"So how would you be a peacemaker between Libby and Rachel?" Colby asked carefully.
Emily eyed the men. Colby was all innocence, but both Lee and her father were uncommonly attentive. They both knew Emily was trying to stay on both women’s good side and move up into their circle. She looked back at Colby thoughtfully and said, "I’d take it to Rev. McWilliams and suggest First Baptist spend an extra dollar a month on those new, dripless candles Pauline saw last winter in Boston."
"Bravo," Lee exclaimed, spearing a couple sliced carrots. "Make peace by taking away the cause of contention." As soon as he said "cause" he groaned inwardly. Zachariah did not disappoint him.
"You know the way Libby and Rachel square off is like some of them Lost Cause hotheads."
Colby chimed in. "Old Dooley goes off like a sulfur match ‘bout the Lost Cause anytime."
"Them Lost Cause fellers and the Reconstruction men between ‘em almost murdered Longstreet in New Orleans after the War," he said earnestly to Lee and Peyton.
Resigned, but feigning interest for Peyton’s sake, Emily looked down at her plate and asked, "And how was that, Daddy?"
"Longstreet walked out into the middle of a New Orleans riot when the secession boys were shooting every colored they saw. Longstreet was tryin’ to make peace and he was almost shot by some Confederates he’d once commanded."
Lee and Emily hadn’t heard this one before. Their eyes met, exchanging the thought that Zachariah was tracking this conversation rather well.
"Miz Emily," Colby answered, "I think yo’ idea of them dripless candles is a much safer way a-bein’ a peacemaker." Emily smiled.
Lee piped up. "You know Zack, given what Longstreet was up against, maybe that’s why the good Lord blessed the peacemakers, because He knew they’d catch it from both sides."
"Could be," Zachariah answered, chewing some of his pot roast.
As Alma cleared the dishes and brought in cobbler Emily said with a sweet malice, "Thank you again, Peyton, for....helping Daddy home from the regimental dinner Friday night."
Zachariah eyed the centerpiece, remembering the flasks littering the tables. He frowned, remembering pools of sidewalk lights, some stairs, and......his room. But that was Friday......and this was definitely Sunday. So Saturday had.......
Emily’s voice broke into his staring. "Peyton do you think after 46 annual regimental dinners the drinking might ever start easing off? Or are some of the men so in the habit....?"
Peyton gulped. "Well, Miz Emily I don’t rightly see how the 8th Georgia could keep its hard fightin’, hard drinkin’ name if we ever did. Not sayin’ some fellers like Dooley don’t indulge a bit too often, but, uh...." Now he couldn’t look at Emily either, or Zack for that matter.
"You know Emily, "Lee broke in, "Sunday bein’ a day of rest I wonder if old Peyton and Zack might feel like an afternoon nap today?"
Peyton stretched and allowed how he really needed to head for home for just such a nap. After he left Zachariah headed for his room. Emily’s leather shoes tip-tapped across the hall into the parlor under her skirt swish. Lee went after her, knowing from her walk she was upset, and Emily greeted him from the settee with, "Why? Why always the old soldier talk? Its been fifty years!" A tear slipped past her poise.
"Maybe he misses----"
"Misses?" she snapped. "Every month there’s some bourbon-splashed, regimental something. He lives under our roof but how can that galoot Bob Bidwell or that four-flushing rascal Dooley Culpepper see him as much as we do?"
Lee tried again. "I meant maybe he misses some of those who didn’t come back."
Emily’s frustration and temper brought her to her feet. "Oh that’s true. He’d rather be with a dead one of them than with Mama when she was dying." Her self-control crumbled and Lee took her in his arms as she sobbed.
"Now Emily you know that's not fair. It was unfortunate but not his fault."
"But he should have been here; at least......my heart says he should have been."
"I expect his heart says the same. He loved her.....and he loves you."
She turned around in his arms so he wouldn’t see her face as she choked out, "He loves those flasks most of all."
Chapter 2
"Ow!" yipped Lucius Robinson.
"I’m sorry, Papa," Beulah said, gently daubing with a wet cloth over a bowl of water. "That’s a nasty scrape on yo’ palm and we gotta clean it."
"I know dat, hunnybunch," Lucius answered, "but it still smarts." He hissed his teeth as she blotted the red-raw skin dry with a towel.
"Hannah gal," Beulah called, "you found that salve yet?"
Eleven year old Hannah came scampering into the kitchen, all pigtails and Sunday shoes. "Here it is, Momma."
"Now take a dab of salve and spread it gentle as you can on Grandpop’s palm where its all red." Beulah tucked Lucius’ brawny forearm under her own and pulled him snugly against her side.
Hannah popped the cover off the metal can. She gingerly dipped two fingers into the gooey mass, wrinkling her nose at the camphor aroma. She turned her earnest, dark brown eyes to her grandfather. "I’ll try to be as easy as I can."
"I know you will," Lucius said. Hannah gave him a small smile, then spread the salve. Lucius winced but held his hand steady, then sighed. "Ooo that’s nice an’ cool."
"Good," Beulah said. "Now Hannah, hand me that folded kerchief, and put a bit of salve on it too." Beulah gently landed the cloth squarely on her father-in-law’s palm, then took another handkerchief and draped it over both sides. "Turn yo’ hand over, Papa," she said, loosening her hold. As he did she snugged up the handkerchief and tied a firm knot below his knuckles, trying to keep a gentle pressure.
"How’s that?" she asked.
Lucius flexed his creaky fingers cautiously. "Pretty fair. You and yo’ nurse here do ratt fine medicine. I’m ‘bliged."
Hannah lifted her chin and crowed,"The Momma an’ Hannah Colored Folk Clinic is proud to be of service to our fellow man." Beulah giggled as Hannah finished, "That’ll be one cent or two eggs, payable by Friday. We cain’t run this here clinic for charity ‘cept for poor folk, which you ain’t."
Lucius wiggled his tight curled eyebrows at her, then dug his good hand into a pocket of his overalls. He pulled out a new penny and expertly mounted it on his thumb. "Mistah Lincoln," he said to the coin, "you keep company now with Hannah." He flicked his thumb. She caught the coin and slapped it onto the back of her left hand. She lifted her right and exclaimed, "Its haids, Grandpa. That’s good luck. Thank you." She stepped up and gave him a quick peck on the cheek, then skipped off to find her cigar box of treasures.
"Put the lid back...." Beulah began, "...on the can of salve," she finished, shaking her head. "Oh I’ll do it." Lucius picked up the wash bowl with his good hand, bumped the screen door open and heaved the cool, slightly bloody water into the back yard.
Beulah wiped her hands dry on her apron. She was lean, with shoulder length black hair falling in wiry locks that framed an angular face. Her warm brown eyes were large for her narrow nose. Her mouth was wide with delicate, often-smiling lips. "You shouldn’ta given Hannah that penny. Its gonna spoil her into thinkin’ she’ll get paid for’ doin’ what she ought."
"One penny ain’t goin’ ta spoil that girl, " Lucius answered. "An’ don’t start with me ‘bout principles and ‘zamples neither. Grandpops get to swap small kindnesses with their granchillun, don’t they?"
"I s’ppose," Beulah answered, turning back to supper. "Well the rice and beans are gettin’ done and everybody’ll be here soon. You go out on the front poach an’ set a spell with Rufus. There's a nice breeze tonight."
Tree shadows were slanting across the street as Lucius stepped onto the porch. He resumed his usual humming, crossed to the far corner and sat down in his rocker. With an airy cane seat and back it never felt sticky or sweaty even on sultry days. The cane-weaving was a bit slack near the top, encouraging dozing. The hickory runners had worn a faint pair of tracks in the porch floor. This was his usual spot, in the shade of the big camellia bush where he watched life go by on Savannah’s west side.
Rufus was sitting in a ladderback chair tilted back against the house, eyes closed and letting the breeze work over his face, listening to his father hum.
"I know what yo’ thinkin’ ‘bout tonight," Lucius said rocking briskly.
"I know you know," Rufus answered, opening his eyes. "Its been so long comin’ I can hardly b’lieve tomorrow’s the day."
"Think you and Beulah’ll get any sleep?"
"I won’t. I’m ‘bout as keyed up as a 17-year locust lookin’ for love." Even in his own excitement Rufus could sense his father didn’t quite share it. Lucius’ spirit was a wet log on a fire, steaming and sputtering instead of burning bright.
"Now you sure you got everything covered?" Lucius asked in an edgy way.
"Far as I can make out, we got it down to the penny," Rufus answered.
"Goin’ over it again tonight?"
"Probably another ten times out loud."
"I’m hopin’ for you, Rufus," he said with his eyes extra wet.
"Thanks Pop," Rufus answered intently.
About the time Beulah finished bandaging Lucius’ hand Alma was walking home. Sea gulls were feasting at the rail yard garbage dump as she came up Broad St. The crossing gate clanged down at Liberty with warning bells. The Atlantic Coast Line 5:22 rang it’s bell in reply and blew a long note on its whistle. The gulls rose in a cloud of squawking flappery, roundly protesting the interruption.
She walked another three blocks (by their short ends) and then turned onto Fahm Street. After a block and half (the long way north) of jaded houses she turned in at her gate and came up the path to a sagging front porch. The house rested on cinder blocks with weather-stained pale green paint. An ugly pair of high-mounted square windows flanked a six-panel front door that looked salvaged from the hall of a seedy hotel.
Two men sat on the porch talking gravely. The one in the rocker was stocky, well-worn by the years, sporting a full, silver-white beard that reached down to armpit level. He had dark, lively eyes with easy-going smile lines. He, the rocker, and the big bush at the porch corner were old friends.
The other man was three decades younger sitting in a kitchen-ordinary brown chair. He was taller and leaner, but there was an obvious similarity around the eyes and matching noses. This man’s mouth and jaw were more jutting, and not just because the other was getting old-age jowly. His sleeves were rolled up, showing off sinewy forearms and long, muscular fingers. His eyes were brown, in a slightly-creamed coffee hue that was very appealing.
Alma bounced up the jouncing steps and gave them with a big smile. "Hi Daddy," she said, pecking his cheek, her eyes a perfect match for his. "Hello grampa." She gave him a matching peck and smiled an extra notch.
He scratched her chin and his eyes twinkled. "My beard still makes you giggle, don’t it?"
"Always has," she answered warmly. It was true. In the crib Alma had giggled endlessly for the chance to play with "gampa’s" face fur as a game between them and as a tuck-in routine.
"Ever’thin' all right at work today?" her father asked.
"Well we did see old Mistah Hampton," her eyebrows arched in humor.
"Oh? And how did you see him today?" Lucius asked.
"Well, like you put it, Friday night he was slanticular, hangin’ between Mistah Thompson and a Mistah Colby. Yesterday he didn’t make it past horizontal. But today he was actually vertical. Polite too."
"Well you go yo’ horizontal-vertical-slanticular way inside an’ help Mama get ready for suppah."
"Yes, Daddy," she piped. "We’ll call you when we’re good an’ ready," and she pushed in the door on the second try. As she tried to close it the door bottom bound tight the last 6 inches.
"I’ll get it," Rufus said going over but the humidity-swollen door would not squeak across the door sill.
As he sat back down Lucius said, "I can help you plane it down again if you think it’ll help."
"Oh I don’t know, Pop. In the fall an’ wintah it lets in an awful draft as it is. Any more and the mice won’t even duck their heads commin’ in."
Lucius hummed, staring off. "Well with any luck at all, in a few more weeks........."
The front door opened suddenly and four smallish feet landed with a thump on the porch. "All right, its time fo’ suppah" came two excited voices. Hannah Marie and her nine year old brother Sherman bubbled with delight having surprised the men. Rufus’ head snapped around, followed by a grin, but Lucius gave his rocker an extra push and almost knocked himself over backwards. At the last minute he caught himself, reaching a hand back against the house wall. Rufus saw his fright (not just from the near spill) but the children missed it.
"C’mon, c’mon lets have suppah" they implored, pulling the men to their feet. Hannah proclaimed like a prophet bringing the Word, "Mama said, ‘now go get that Rufus Saxton Robinson and his old man Lucius right away. Iffin’ you get ‘em here before I count ten you’ll each get a piece of penny candy for the walk to church.’ So hurry up, hurry up! Mama’s countin’!’"
They led the grinning, mock-protesting men inside. As Rufus carried in his chair he said, "How come we don’t get a piece o’ penny candy for walkin’ to church?" With a hard push the door squeaked shut.
Later that night Alma couldn’t fall asleep. Through the thin wall by her bed came the sound of Lucius’ sleep noises. She frowned in the dark. His snoring, whimpering and mumbled words were a dead ringer for Mr. Hampton’s on Saturday.
Chapter 3
Rutland, Vermont
Spring had overcome stubborn Vermont winter. Even east of Rutland Pico Peak no longer wore a grey-brown coat but now flaunted a green cape. A pair of light green eyes stared south, not noticing Pico Peak off to the left, unblinking despite the gusty breeze. The sun was high enough so the cap bill shaded the eyes. Ever southward stared the eyes, framed by squared off sideburns and wisps of greenish hair. Nearly five decades those eyes had watched for southern menace. Pedestrians, carriages, motor cars, the eyes missed them all and did not see the cane-steadied walk of a southbound man.
The cane-wielding old man knew those eyes and their stare. He knew those eyes, and the cheekbones, brows, forehead, mouth and chin that attended them. But hardly ever did he look, either into those eyes, or south for the menace. Today he did not see that the bird serenading the morning was perched on the cap bill that shaded the eyes of the statue.
Calvin Salisbury continued south, leaving behind the Union soldier statue in front of the courthouse. He knew the statue’s spirit and the courthouse as a second home. The worn tip of his came landed a regular 8 inches wide of his right shoe.
He saw a heavy set man, neatly barbered and his hair plastered down with Brilliantine, a full gray beard under a squat pug nose, lumber past the row of shops ahead and step up to the streetcar stop. Calvin suddenly found it interesting to study a handbill nailed to a wooden utility pole. He read the notice until a streetcar came clanging up West Street. As the car squealed to a halt across the street Calvin crossed behind the back side. He heard a familiar wheezy voice from the open door saying, "You’d think after 16 years they’d just give up their seats without a reminder."
The conductor’s loud voice said to someone in the car, "You’ll either have to stand or get off the car." A moment later two lanky black men dressed as bellmen and wearing scornful expressions loudly stepped onto the curb. As the car pulled away they shook their fists after it.
Calvin walked passed them and turned down a small row of shops this Saturday and let himself in the fourth one. The bell over the door jingled while aromas of soap, camphor and bay rum met his nose.
From behind the high leather and chrome chair Randolph stopped snipping his scissors. "G’mannin, Calvin." The checker players by the window paused too. "Hello, Calvin." "Mannin’, Judge." The stranger in the chair nodded and said, "How air ya, sarr?" His lilt rolled from the Irish countryside to the barbershop window, still a bit surprising for Rutland.
Calvin nodded toward them all. "G’mannin, gentlemen." He carefully hung his coat and hat on the usual third hook, crossed to the barber’s chair and held out his hand to the stranger. "How do ya do? I’m Judge Calvin Salisbury, retired, from here in Rutland." His tangy New England vowels ricocheted off his crisp consonants.
Flipping the barber’s sheet off his right hand, the newcomer shook hands. "Playsure t’ meet you, Judge Salisbury. M’name’s Tom Boyle from South Boston. I’m the new manager at the Paramount over on Merchant’s Row (which sounded like "roo" to the others). My staff recommended Mister Randolph’s shop here."
"I’m sure (which struck Boyle’s ear as "shah") Randolph will give you his finest cutting," Calvin said chuckling and took a chair by the wall. "He’ll want you as a customer to replace us old fogies that have been here since before the War."
Randolph grinned and went back to his snipping. Soon he spun Boyle around to face the large wall mirror.
"Very handsome, I’m sure," Boyle said, quite pleased. Randolph scattered the clippings with a small brush, unbuttoned the sheet collar, and brushed the nape of Boyle’s neck. "Tonic for you? Only five cents," he asked, wide, dark brown eyes blinking over a heavy, black moustache, the only hair above his neck.
"Ooo, not this time," replied Boyle, his jowls fluttering. Randolph nodded and worked the chair lever. Boyle lumbered down, reached in his vest pocket, and handed Randolph two dimes.
"There's fifteen for the cut, and five for your trouble," he said.
"Thank you," Randolph answered with a smile, his teeth bright in contrast to his walnut colored skin. "Hope to see you next Saturday."
"I just might," said Boyle, slipping on his coat. "A good day t’all, gentlemen."
The bell jingled over Boyle and Calvin took his place. Sam Wentworth at the checkerboard double jumped middle-aged Tom Cockburn, the town clerk. Sam had grown his hair mountain-man long in his cow-punching and prospecting days out West after the War. Now he wore it (still salt-and-pepper in his mid-70s) in collar-length locks and faintly resembled a bearded Ben Franklin. He nodded after Boyle and imitated, "Thar’s fifteen for the coot an’ five for your trooble. Ha! A full chisel Boston Irishman here in Rutland."
"If he brings good shows to the Paramount, its fine by me he’s Irish, or from Boston, or Catholic," Calvin answered over the shika-shika of Randolph’s scissors. Something about the barber’s mood led Calvin to ask, "Everything going well, Randolph?"
"Guess it shows, huh? Well, its just that Josiah Trimble who was here before Mr. Boyle. Got a haircut and beard trim but didn’t want to pay me the five cents for the Brilliantine. Said since I had a lot of colored customers I didn’t need to order it as often and so he should get it free."
"Cheapskate," the men agreed. "Piker." "Scrooge."
"He likes to show off his money without parting with it," Randolph growled. "Has he always been like that?"
Calvin shrugged but Sam piped up, "He has been since the War, but before then the Trimbles were pretty hard up. I wonder if he got an inheritance or something."
Having vented this Randolph’s scissors went back to normal until Calvin sensed him finishing. "Randolph, this mannin’ I’d also like a shave of my cheeks and a trim of my beard. And I’d like a tonic, the Bay Rum please."
"Yes sir!" said Randolph eagerly. After squaring off Calvin’s goatee he reclined the chair fully. Over the chocka-chocka sound of the shaving brush stirring in the mug Randolph asked, "What’s the special occasion, Calvin?" He lathered up Calvin’s cheeks, stopping where the edge of his moustache connected to his goatee. "Beard, shave and tonic is quite the haircut for you." He stropped his razor as Calvin answered, "Its Decoration Day---or as most folks call it--Memorial Day. Tonight is the regimental dinner." He continued through barely moving lips as Randolph began shaving. "I’m giving the address this year."
"Congratulations, Calvin," Randolph said as he shaved.
"Quite an honor for you," said Tom, the other checker player. "King me," he said to Sam.
Randolph finished the shave and applied a steaming towel. When Calvin came up from under the terry cloth Sam asked, "All set for the speech?"
"I’ve got it written, if that's what you mean," Calvin said "but I’ll admit I’m nervous" (which he pronounced ‘navvis.’)
"Why’s that Calvin?" Randolph asked.
"I gave orders in battle and made rulings in court," Calvin sighed, "but speaking to comrades about sacrifices...... what the War meant..... is a hard thing for me. Some of them were wounded, some didn’t come back." He swallowed hard. "Why were some blessed to survive when others gave so much?"
A somber mood crept into the barbershop. For Randolph and Cockburn the war had been schoolboy stories and tight-faced looks from neighborhood women. For Sam, something tightened in his guts and dried his mouth. Out loud he said, "I’m sure you’ll do just fine, Calvin."
"And I’ll make sure you look fine," said Randolph abruptly. He poured a splash from the white, conical bottle of Bay Rum and began rubbing it into Calvin’s scalp. Smiling he added, "I’ll make sure you even smell fine," combing Calvin’s plastered hair into place. Talk turned to idle topics.
A few minutes later Calvin stepped down carefully and pulled out his snap purse. "How much I owe you, Randolph?"
"Well let’s see. Haircut and shave, twenty-five cents, and another five for trimming your beard."
Calvin sniffed. "You forgot the Bay Rum, so that makes thirty-five."
Randolph looked at him steadily. "Thirty. No charge for the Bay Rum for the dinner speaker."
Calvin looked at him with a small smile, then handed over a quarter, dime and five pennies. "Then this is an extra tip, Randolph. Thank you."
Calvin headed back north and turned left up West Street, crossing Lincoln and Elm until he came to Merchant’s Row. The shops were open and the sidewalks crowded. Calvin thought of the old days when a Rutland and a Hudson train almost arrived together and all the passengers would spill out onto Center and Evelyn streets. But this was Rutland’s own population, shopping, jostling, laughing, hurrying, and generally ignoring the crisply bearded gentleman walking carefully with a chestnut cane and Bay Rum air.
Calvin passed Trimble’s jewelry store but here was no sign of the crusty, heavyset owner. He thought again of what Sam had said about Trimble’s change of fortune at the end of the War. Sam had wondered about an inheritance but now as Calvin pondered he couldn’t ever recall any of Josiah’s or Abigail’s relations having any particular wealth.
Calvin turned off a few doors later at Abernathy’s. They had done a fine job---no dangling threads, a fraying cuff touched up with dye, brass buttons and insignia polished to a gleam. He paid twenty-five cents for the touchups and the new dry-cleaning process. The brown paper sheets crinkled softly as he carried the suit on his left arm home to Burnham Avenue.
Later in the morning Eleanor asked, "Calvin? Would it help if you tried out your speech on me?" Her marvelous blue eyes looked at him from her V-shaped face under a coiled crown of snow white hair. Calvin valued her mind and love but also this chance. As the weight of wifely conventions had sunk upon her, being his sounding board for important speeches and rulings was a lasting reminder of her daring. Unconsciously he hoped the effect of talking over his speech might last at least the rest of the day.
"Well all right, I suppose," he stammered, not himself. He stood at the dining room table while she listened. Her face was a mask as he finished and asked, "What do you think?"
As she thought for a long moment he admired the passionate concentration nearly glowing from her, a passion he’d fallen in love with and married. "Its good Calvin. You cite history, quote Lincoln, ask them to consider the causes of the War. But I think its a little too Judge Salisbury and not enough Calvin."
"How do you mean?" he asked, sitting down next to her.
"Its almost a court ruling. You avoid hardships. You’re hiding your smiles and humor."
"Ah, but the men......"
She finished, "......wouldn’t mind some acknowledgment of their pains. Show a bit of yourself and your own burden and it will help the men with theirs."
"You think so?"
"Calvin, I’ve seen it in you when you’ve come back from reunions. You’ve talked up a storm with the other veterans and somehow that's helped you. The effect lasts for several weeks, so I’m glad you get to go so often."
"Really!" he exclaimed, still amazed how well she knew him.
"Maybe you could note their pains in the War and their pains now. This is 1912 and I think the men need to pay attention to that." Calvin nodded while scanning his manuscript. He began scribbling in the margins. Eleanor reached into her sewing basket and pulled out a pair of scissors. "These could help you move around some of the pieces."
He grinned as she snapped the pair in the air. "I’ll get it."
"I know you will," she smiled back in the way that always made him blush slightly.
Calvin finished reworking the manuscript and tried out some lines and paragraphs on Eleanor. She nodded vigorously. "That's it. That’s a speech!"
"Thanks," he said, feeling drained. Indeed, lunchtime was at hand but he felt weaker than just from hunger. "I think I’ll lie down for a bit." She saw him pale and shaky.
"Don’t try the stairs. Go right into the back room and draw the shade. Lie down on the guest bed and I’ll bring you a compress. Maybe we can head off an attack."
Calvin wobbled around the back room, loosed the drape tie backs and laid down, small lights flashing in his closed eyes and a pang behind his right eyebrow. Ellie hurried in with an enameled tin bowl of ice water and a dishcloth. The dark and the cold on the forehead helped, helped enough so that he fell into a deep sleep. Eleanor pulled an afghan over him and tiptoed out.
She wrote him a note in case he woke while she was gone. She made herself a sandwich and cut up an apple and tucked them into a basket. She cut a few spring flowers from the side garden and tied them with a ribbon. Then she went to the Rutland Town Cemetery for the Decoration Day ceremonies. She laid flowers from Calvin and herself on the grave there. She hoped the rifle squad volleys and especially the three blank cannon rounds would not carry to Burnham Street. If he could sleep, he might make it to the banquet.
__________
UPDATE: Added Chapter 4; I tried adding 4 & 5 but I reached the limit of diary length and only 2/3 of 5 showed on preview, so this is all that will fit today.
Chapter 4
After the men had recited the Gettysburg Address Calvin rose, aligned the creases in his pants, and walked deliberately to the podium. He was not quite himself but was much improved. He leaned lightly on his cane with the brass ring at its neck. The spiraling inscription in fresh-polished brass read, "To Maj. Calvin Salisbury, 14th VT, Army of the Potomac, for heroism, duty and service to God and country. From his men, May 30, 1876."
A compactly built, small-boned man of angular features, his cheekbones stood out in sharp relief above his surprisingly smooth cheeks. Thanks to Randolph his neatly trimmed moustache rode white and crisp above a wedge of beard. He pulled on his steel-rimmed glasses and scanned the room, seeing old friends, but missing Ashton Melo. Ashton was from the gallant 54th Massachusetts, a regular attender, but tonight the oval African face under the steel-wool gray hair was absent. Calvin was crestfallen since he hoped Melo particularly would like his speech.
Calvin spread out his manuscript, written in small, clear script on several sheets of fine linen paper. When he spoke his voice was classic New England nasal in a tenor pitch often called boyish. His light voice made him take extra pains choosing words and phrases for their authority. He nodded to John Franklin.
"It is from a solemn obligation to duty that I accepted our post commander’s request. We meet tonight for the 46th time to honor our comrades, recall our sacrifices, and reaffirm the principles of liberty and democracy which we defended.
"Not every generation is called on to defend the nation. Not every generation suffers as we have suffered." Calvin glanced at the empty sleeves and mask-like faces of several men at their tables. "My friends, we are such a generation. We were called, we answered and we suffered and died so that those who live after us might have peace and opportunity.
"But was our sacrifice of limb, life, blood and treasure worth the ideals of America? After all, those who fought against the Constitution also gave their treasure, their blood and their lives. They fought nobly and courageously. If there was equal valor and equal suffering on both sides can’t we stop there? There are many who do so. Many veterans and Civil War enthusiasts want to debate tactics, celebrate old soldiers being old together and leave aside the meanings of the War." His blue-gray eyes slowly swept the room like a jury box. "Of all Americans, we cannot do that."
"What if the South had prevailed? Suppose Lee had broken our Army and taken Washington City? What if Bragg had beaten Buell in Kentucky? What if Halleck had stayed in the field scratching both elbows and standing in Grant’s way?" A snorted chuckle ran around the room. Men recalled the old photograph image of Henry Halleck, Grant’s superior in the War’s first year, performing an odd self-hug as he scratched.
"We would hear much less about valor and honor. Instead, another nation would taunt us about states’ rights, the superior white race and Negro inferiority, and justify slavery by Biblical appeal. Indeed we hear much of that now.
"But my friends, because of the North's victory we have given the whole nation a new birth of freedom. Our struggles gave birth were the birthing pains of a deeper liberty for all Americans and a beacon for the nations of the earth. That is why we require our school children learn Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address and what our fight accomplished.
"You see, freedom has been born and defended many times. Freedom was born in the Magna Carta of 1215. Freedom was defended by the men of Sir Francis Drake against the Spanish Armada in 1588. Freedom was reborn on our shores at Plymouth Rock in 1621. Freedom was defended in Boston in 1689 when royal governor Andros and his state bishop were overthrown. Freedom was reborn in 1776 in the immortal words of Jefferson’s Declaration. And my friends," Calvin said in a measured pace, "four score and seven years later we defended freedom and brought freedom to millions.
"Our national shame was preaching and denying liberty at the same time. It fell to our generation, led by President Lincoln and his mighty generals Grant and Sherman, to pay this national shame. We bled, fought, starved, and died so our national sin might be atoned for in our flesh. For this, we have earned the praise and thanks of our countrymen.
"Yet has liberty taken root? In the South colored people are barred from schools, jobs, parks, even from cemeteries. Every year dozens of lynchings...."
A heavy thud boomed against the double doors at the back of the hall and the doorknobs rattled. Calvin saw through the cigar smoke haze someone get up and pull open the door. He looked down and started violently. Then a strong but shaky voice said, "Its Ashton Melo, bleedin’ bad."
The banquet dissolved into a hubbub of chatter, scraping chairs, clumping feet. One cook was dispatched to fetch a doctor, and another to bring a constable. Calvin pushed through the chaos and saw a blood smear congealed on the brass "54" on Ashton’s kepi. Melo’s whimpering made his heart sank and his stomach turn over. For a moment the flashing lights and stabbing pain from earlier crackled through his head. He had forgotten, because he never wanted to remember again, how blood stained a dark blue Union uniform.