Dalton's First Full Day Free for all (Open)
Dec 6, 2010 22:13:03 GMT -5
Post by Jacob Dalton on Dec 6, 2010 22:13:03 GMT -5
Jack Frost had been at Dalton’s window last night. Dalton woke to see Martin sniffing curiously at the delicate latticework of ice crystals covering the pane. Beautiful as it was, it gave Dalton immediate pause. He rose to examine the window.
Sure enough, he had been deceived by the window design. It looked double-paned, but in fact was only a single. Waving a hand slowly inches away from it, he could feel the chill blazing off the glass. His utility bills would be sky-high if he didn’t address this very shortly indeed.
He had bought what looked like a tasty gourmet coffee at the grocers, but waited till this morning to open it up: only to find unground beans. Didn’t Americans generally grind their coffee before packaging? But there is was in the fine print at the bottom of the bag. He’d have to get a grinder: but that didn’t do him much good this morning.
And so the morning went. A dozen inconsequential frustrations piled one upon another as if in fact it were not Monday morning, but rather Friday the 13th or some cosmic version of April Fools. How very fortunate that he was not expected until 9:00 this morning: no one would have had time to be available during the usual bustle of homeroom and first period. Regardless, the irritations of the morning led him to leave early.
On his drive towards Hammel he found himself fidgety and irritable. But why? Such minor incidents were to be expected with a major life change: intellectually he knew to be prepared for them. But what he hadn’t been prepared for was the continuing, deafening silence.
No one to phone at lunch, to see how their day went. No one waiting for him to get home for supper. No one’s homework to check: no allowance funds to be sure he had available in his wallet. No one to cook for: no list of errands not of his making. The endless silence of both separation and death.
It would not do to arrive for work brooding so. His eyes cast restlessly about until he spotted a small gravel lane twisting off the main route into the woods. No mailbox out front, and no street sign. No “No Tresspassing” sign, either. The road less traveled?
On a whim he slowed and took the turn, keeping his speed down not to throw up gravel against Blue’s brilliant paint. The trees closed in overhead, and the dull gray sky faded away.
He smiled and relaxed. Here and there small driveways sprouted off this little lane, but in the end it wound into a large circle completely surrounded by woods. An occasional bright red fire hydrant stood out oddly against the greensward. He parked on the minimal shoulder and stepped out.
The fragrance of the woods entranced him. He sat back against the car, listening to the whisper of the breeze through the branches above his head. Sound above, but stillness below. The caw of a large bird drew his attention, but too late to see its source. What kinds of birds dwelt in Vermont, he wondered? He might have to find out.
What was this place? Gazing about the circle, he concluded the lane was a first step to developing the land for residences in the wide swaths of level green surrounding it. But the lane was going to weed, and the nearest hydrant appeared weathered and rusty. No one had followed through. Perhaps the developer had lost title or funds to continue?
The end result was rather like a simple park: no picnic tables, swings, slides or other accoutrements, just nature. It was just what he had needed.
He closed his eyes and for a few minutes simply breathed in the whole sense of the place, feeling the tension drain out. Oh, yes: today would be fine. The travails of the morning were past: they no longer carried any tarnish towards the day to come.
He opened his eyes again, feeling as if he had just awakened from a restful night’s sleep. The smile and cheer on his face now were genuine. He would certainly be returning here again.
The drive back to the road was a restful quiet as he glanced up through the trees, trying to spot the houses to which the driveways led. He could not. Comfortable, cozy privacy.
Back on the main road he soon discovered he had been but a mere ten minutes from Hammel. Interesting indeed.
He pulled into the lot, parked and strolled in through the doors. Classes must be in session: the halls had the quiet hum of a schoolday in progress. Cheerfully he entered the front office, and found the receptionist not present. But a moment later a door opened, and he turned to greet the newcomer. “Good morning! Jacob Dalton, at your service. A pleasure...”
(let the fun commence!)
Sure enough, he had been deceived by the window design. It looked double-paned, but in fact was only a single. Waving a hand slowly inches away from it, he could feel the chill blazing off the glass. His utility bills would be sky-high if he didn’t address this very shortly indeed.
He had bought what looked like a tasty gourmet coffee at the grocers, but waited till this morning to open it up: only to find unground beans. Didn’t Americans generally grind their coffee before packaging? But there is was in the fine print at the bottom of the bag. He’d have to get a grinder: but that didn’t do him much good this morning.
And so the morning went. A dozen inconsequential frustrations piled one upon another as if in fact it were not Monday morning, but rather Friday the 13th or some cosmic version of April Fools. How very fortunate that he was not expected until 9:00 this morning: no one would have had time to be available during the usual bustle of homeroom and first period. Regardless, the irritations of the morning led him to leave early.
On his drive towards Hammel he found himself fidgety and irritable. But why? Such minor incidents were to be expected with a major life change: intellectually he knew to be prepared for them. But what he hadn’t been prepared for was the continuing, deafening silence.
No one to phone at lunch, to see how their day went. No one waiting for him to get home for supper. No one’s homework to check: no allowance funds to be sure he had available in his wallet. No one to cook for: no list of errands not of his making. The endless silence of both separation and death.
It would not do to arrive for work brooding so. His eyes cast restlessly about until he spotted a small gravel lane twisting off the main route into the woods. No mailbox out front, and no street sign. No “No Tresspassing” sign, either. The road less traveled?
On a whim he slowed and took the turn, keeping his speed down not to throw up gravel against Blue’s brilliant paint. The trees closed in overhead, and the dull gray sky faded away.
He smiled and relaxed. Here and there small driveways sprouted off this little lane, but in the end it wound into a large circle completely surrounded by woods. An occasional bright red fire hydrant stood out oddly against the greensward. He parked on the minimal shoulder and stepped out.
The fragrance of the woods entranced him. He sat back against the car, listening to the whisper of the breeze through the branches above his head. Sound above, but stillness below. The caw of a large bird drew his attention, but too late to see its source. What kinds of birds dwelt in Vermont, he wondered? He might have to find out.
What was this place? Gazing about the circle, he concluded the lane was a first step to developing the land for residences in the wide swaths of level green surrounding it. But the lane was going to weed, and the nearest hydrant appeared weathered and rusty. No one had followed through. Perhaps the developer had lost title or funds to continue?
The end result was rather like a simple park: no picnic tables, swings, slides or other accoutrements, just nature. It was just what he had needed.
He closed his eyes and for a few minutes simply breathed in the whole sense of the place, feeling the tension drain out. Oh, yes: today would be fine. The travails of the morning were past: they no longer carried any tarnish towards the day to come.
He opened his eyes again, feeling as if he had just awakened from a restful night’s sleep. The smile and cheer on his face now were genuine. He would certainly be returning here again.
The drive back to the road was a restful quiet as he glanced up through the trees, trying to spot the houses to which the driveways led. He could not. Comfortable, cozy privacy.
Back on the main road he soon discovered he had been but a mere ten minutes from Hammel. Interesting indeed.
He pulled into the lot, parked and strolled in through the doors. Classes must be in session: the halls had the quiet hum of a schoolday in progress. Cheerfully he entered the front office, and found the receptionist not present. But a moment later a door opened, and he turned to greet the newcomer. “Good morning! Jacob Dalton, at your service. A pleasure...”
(let the fun commence!)
