Chapter 18
The olde greenhouse
Our 6th hangout spot was the hollow foundation of a pre-civil war house built in 1853 and destroyed by fire in 1897. As we walked down sixteen cracked and crumbling concrete steps, I noticed an inconsequential amount of aggregate had been set in the mix to strengthen it. These steps would take us to the far reaches of the cellar, where the humidity seemed to peak. The four remaining steps had plant life growing out of them, and yet they were undisturbed by the ever-moving process of time. The chatter of insects along with the faraway sound of birds made me feel further than I wanted to be from society.
“How do you make this much mortar without a concrete mixer, and even then, how do you get it all back here?” asked Peter, full of dormant enthusiasm, while looking for a place to sit in the boscage.
I responded by saying, “A hundred and fifty years ago, you didn't have any trucks, and you couldn't use a stagecoach cause there were no roads yet.”
“Then how did they get it back here?” he asked, bemused.
“They put the satchels on horses and rode them in.”
“How many horses?”
“Hundreds. And before that, they used Bulldogs.”
*Suddenly, Peter begins laughing aloud*
“I gotta hand it to you; you really got me with that one.”
Whenever we got high, we joked around a lot, and part of joking around usually entailed the art of prefabricating complete nonsense. This we would do as an attempt to try and fool the other person, but mostly we did it for kicks. Indeed, John was the reigning champ at this, but I was quickly gaining ground over him.
That's just a crazy little part of the way things were back then. Everyone was carefree and lived peacefully within the order of society. Now everyone has their own worries, jobs to go to, and never-ending bills to pay.
“I can almost see it beginning to take shape in my mind,” bellowed Pete. “Four hundred Bulldogs all over Staten Island lumbering around with bags of masonry powder draped across their backs like they were carrying life's burden. I can almost see them coming now, trudging through the woods with faces of despair.”
With that, he fell to the ground in a fit of hysterics and began to pound his fist into the soft soil. “I can't handle it, man,” he said, as tears came streaming down his cheek. “Such long faces.”
“In all actuality, and with no pun intended, they are one of the few creatures on earth that actually appear to look sadder when the sun is shining.”
“Picture if you woke up one morning looking like that, Charles; you'd wanna stay inside too!”
Pg 89 -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
After the laughter subsided, we looked around and saw how everything had taken form. In a mellow kind of way, it felt like we were in a large terrarium, one without a top. It was at least five degrees warmer down here than it was up there, but it felt like ten, where it exhibited a semitropical atmosphere. As Peter began rooting around, I gazed about to find a world encased around me, I could almost imagine myself being in the jungles of Vietnam long after the war had ended. We made our way through a labyrinth of small trees that had grown upwards toward the center and were now looking at bushes that had accumulated around the corners. Not one thorn in here, thank God.
“Wouldn't it be cool to see a tree carving from the eighteen hundreds?” asked Peter blithely.
“That would flip me out, man.”
“I know, right?” replied Peter in a joyful tone. That would really be something. A tree carving from that period of time would have to be at least a foot into the tree by now. Eighty rings of bark is no whittle.”
We then laughed.
“Any carving, regardless of how deep it is, would certainly be gone by now. But you must never forget that what is carved onto a tree will forever remain on that tree, kind of like a scar. No matter how faint it appears to one's eye, it will always be there. Now if we had a TF-1, we could find it.”
“What on God's earth is that?” asked Peter in a mystified tone.
“A TF-1 is a device with a small screen that allows one to see how old a tree is by counting how many rings it has. The deluxe model comes with a fine-tuning knob that lets you see in black and white what lies hidden beneath the surface of the tree. A two-dimensional image that reads very much like an X-ray. Meaning that anything that has ever been inscribed onto its surface would now be made visible.”
“Where the hell do you get one of those?”
“You could probably find one in The Twilight Zone under things titled, what you need.”
“Don't tell me you just made that up,” said Peter, quite stunned. “That was very convincing.”
I then motioned toward the rear of the building, where the remains of an old pot belly stove were lying. I pulled it to its feet but could not find the top half. It looked ridiculous in that position, so I laid it back down on its side again. Peter was busy examining the wall on the other side of the cellar, so I used my hands to part the trees in this wayward jungle. He then spotted something lying in the weeds and bent over to pick it up. “Hey Charles, take a look at this!”
He handed me a deteriorated catcher's mitt that had been left by someone a very long time ago, and for a second, I honestly wondered if the person who left it there ever became a famous ball player. The lacing had all but withered away and was black. “My God, this thing is ancient. If I had to guess, I would say it has to be from the thirties or forties.” That old glove which had been placed upon a three-foot cluster of lateritious bricks from a fallen chimney, and discarded in another time by a passerby, was now under scrutiny.
Pg 90 -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Looking at the partially calcified mass of white pimpled bumps on a sticky layer of green virescent leather, I was undeniably repulsed. Even nature, in all its beauty, has the uncanny ability to break down over time, and when it does, it is not a pretty sight. What I saw was simply spores of mold growing on its decaying fabric.
If it was really left out in the woods for forty years, then it was understandable. Through the heat of summer with the winds and rain. Brutal winters freezing it in hale and ice before thawing it out again, to undergo the process repeatedly, then sure.
I soon started to think of that old catcher's mitt and how wonderful it must have looked in the store when it was brand new. How it smelled and felt, and how it held up next to all the other gloves and machine autographed George "Snuffy" Stirnweiss bats. “Go, you damn Yankees!” I said aloud in my head with the crowd of that era cheering. Like baseball cards themselves, it was the pride of its day to every young boy growing up in the heart of North America.
Unfettered by time, free to live and dream without caring. Why was everything better back then than it is now? Even further back to his father before him. Free to craft heroes from a ten-cent novel, found at the local Five and Dime.
Free to build hopes upon wishes was the adventurous heart. So chivalrous and true were those authors who made sure never to raise even the mildest blemish upon the tender skin of the fair maiden, who I could now see riding off into the sunset with her rescuer. The one who fought for her glory. To you, sir, I remove my hat and bow, but you and that young boy have long since withered away. To become fertilizer for the earth. Salt to the sea. A better place, perhaps.
One that beckons for my entrance. That dinner I am soon to attend.
There is a particular area in our cord-like brains that allows imagination to fester, and at that precise moment in time, it must have been lighting up like an early Thomas Edison light bulb.
These stories are best suited for dreaming, as I know all too well, for the only thing that becomes of dreams are tears, and the only thing tears are good for is to satisfy one's ailing conscience.
As Peter began petting a ladybug that had landed on his shoulder, a bead of sweat rolled down the side of my face and neck. Feeling a wee bit restless, I decided to take my little Case knife and whittled my initials into one of the smooth trees. I began carving them directly above a faded World War II medal someone had nailed into the tree years before. Pete seeing this said, “I wanna throw mine on there too.” As I finished, Peter proceeded to carve his initials directly under the war god's helmet. After muddling around for twenty minutes, we walked back up the cracked and broken stairs to the awaiting trail. Casually, we walked while listening to the peaceful sound of birds chirping and insects buzzing until we reached our 7th little place of refuge.
The Esquires - I still love you
Pg 91 -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Reviews for chapter 18
Michael Howard - "the partially calcified mass of white pimpled bumps on a sticky layer of virescent leather" I don't even know what the hell I'm reading and I love it!
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This review was posted on Aug/2622
Lameez' review
Beta-Read Report for 'The Embryo Man and Other Tales of Woe - Chapter 18'
Beta Reader: Lameez Rushin (Lameezisreal)
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This review was posted on Oct/9/22
nehanegi1905 's review The Embryo Man and Other Tales of Woe: Chapter 18 - The olde greenhouse
Reader's Report by nehanegi1905
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iqrabashir871 's review The Embryo Man and Other Tales of Woe: Chapter 18 - The olde greenhouse
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Hajranoor's review
The Embryo Man and Other Tales of Woe: Chapter 18 - The olde greenhouse
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The Embryo Man and Other Tales of Woe: Chapter 18 - The olde greenhouse
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Alysorrow's review The Embryo Man and Other Tales of Woe: Chapter 18 - The olde greenhouse
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The Embryo Man and Other Tales of Woe: Chapter 18 - The Olde Greenhouse
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Saleha Zainab - Sep 6 - Chapter 18 SZ This chapter from the novel paints a vivid picture of a unique setting and captures the nostalgic reminiscences of the characters. This chapter exhibits several elements commonly associated with American novel writing.
Setting: If we talk about the setting of this chapter, It is the 6th adventure or a journey of author's escapism. It starts by describing the setting of the old cellar, which is the characters' "hangout spot." The author provides rich details about the crumbling concrete steps, the plant life, and the atmosphere, creating a vivid and immersive setting. This chapter also portrays the beauty of the natural world, from the cellar's semi-tropical atmosphere to the absence of thorns in the overgrown bushes. This celebrates the wilderness and the idea of escaping into nature as a form of solace or spiritual renewal. This sense of place is a hallmark of American literature sense of place for the reader. This setting also serves as a metaphorical escape from the modern world.
Character: Characters in this chapter are not new to reader. Reader is very well aware of their bond and nature through the context of previous chapters.
Nostalgia and Reflection: The chapter delves into a sense of nostalgia and reflection, as the characters ponder on how things used to be carefree and peaceful in the past reflecting a desire to recapture a perceived "golden age." This theme of longing for simpler times is a recurring motif throughout the chapter.
Imagination and Storytelling: The chapter explores the power of imagination and storytelling. Charles and Peter engage in creative storytelling, such as the humorous tale of Bulldogs carrying mortar. This emphasizes their desire to escape from their current worries and responsibilities.
Literary References: The chapter makes references to historical events and literary works, such as the mention of the pre-Civil War house, the 1897 fire, the 1800s tree carvings and the TF-1 device all tie the narrative to a specific historical context, contributing to a sense of time and place.
The cycle of the nature: The chapter juxtaposes the beauty of nature in the cellar with the decay of the catcher's mitt. It highlights the cyclical nature of life and how even the most beautiful things can deteriorate over time. It also taps into the notion of progress and change. Concisely, this chapter serves as a contemplative and reflective interlude in the novel, exploring themes of nostalgia, imagination, and the passage of time.This chapter aligns with the themes of American novel writing style, mentioning war, nostalgic expressions, contemplative style and change of time all these makes this novel a perfect fit in the rows of American novels. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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PG 89) The Oligocene Gardens by Jacek Yerka - http://www.yerkaland.com/
PG 89) Bull-dogs by Charles Burton Barber (circa 1881) - http://Bulldogs.com/y8fdboc
PG 90) Summer in a city by Jacek Yerka - http://www.yerkaland.com/
PG 90) The Sargass sea bishop by Jacek Yerka - http://www.yerkaland.com/
PG 91) The five and dime store, circa 1930's - http://tinyurl.com/lb6l8uv
PG 91) Thomas Edison long style (replica) - http://ThomasEd.com/y8fdboc
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