WELCOME

The town was unlike any other town I’d ever been to. It was not large, in terms of population; but it spread out from shore to shore to shore with inhabitants in all corners of the globe. (Which is a strange expression, given that globes don’t have corners at all.)

There was no central location where people gathered, no city hall or post office. Instead, each person received mail personally delivered, and in record time. A billboard listed all kinds of activities going on, and that was a popular spot to visit. Newsletters came out regularly, to encourage people in their craft.

You see, the thing that all the residents had in common was language. Every one of them liked to read, or write, or both. Other than that, they were a disparate lot indeed. There were cowboys and witches, sleuths and romantics, poets and dreamers—why, just about every kind of folk you could imagine. They all came to this village to show off their wares, or shop for ideas, or learn new things.

And the name of the village was Welcome.

I built a house there myself last May, over by the reservoir, with a grand view of the mountains and, of course, the water. It’s made of logs, and has a wide front deck and a big picture window in the living room. The living room is where I actually live. My computer is there, and my binoculars and my bird book, plus a stack of New Yorkers and whatever else I’m reading at the time. When I can’t think of anything to write, and I’m tired of reading and I don’t feel like socializing, I can take a walk, or make some coffee, or just stay put. I can take a few notes, or make a few changes to things I’m working on. I can read my mail, and put out my welcome mat; or I can put out the No Trespassers sign if I feel like it. Nobody will get offended.

So, there I was, that day last May, sitting in my comfortable chair with my feet up, looking out at the lake with my binoculars. There were some hawks flying around, and I was trying to figure out what kind they were, when a knock sounded on my front door. Now that’s strange, because to get to my front door, you have to climb a hill, and there’s no path goes up it. I always use the back door, where I park my Land Rover.

I grudgingly got up from my seat and maneuvered past the dog and the cat to open the door, or at least to peer out the peephole, when someone shoved it open forcefully. (Oops, I let one of my adverbs out. I keep the most decorous of them in a closet under the stairs, where I go ponder them fondly when short of words. The tamer ones I give full reign of the house, and have never found them to be a problem. But some folks do.)

The adverb, Ostentatiously, I believe it was, knocked over the visitor in its effort to escape. Shouting, “Free at last, where I shall be read and appreciated!” my adverb cascaded down my hill, never to be seen again.

The stranger, who had so rudely interrupted my sky gazing, introduced himself.
“My name is MadasaMarchHare,” he said, bowing slightly from the waist. “You can see by my case that my icon is a rabbit, but that too is due to change soon. Don’t worry too much about it.”

“I sha’n’t,” I assured him, not knowing why I chose to use such a quaint word. I don’t believe I was showing off. “Your name is rather long,” I said. “What shall I call you?”

“My name is Harold,” he said, “but don’t bother to remember that either. You’ll probably never see it again.”

I was feeling quite perplexed. “Come in if you please, er, Harold,” I said, and he did.

“While looking in your port,” he began.

“What’s that?” I asked, perturbed. “I haven’t invited you to my port, sir,” I announced.

“Oh no, no, no. It doesn’t take an invitation!” He laughed, as if I’d said the silliest thing in the world.

I was prepared to argue about the propriety of this, when he asked, “Where is your computer? I’ll show you.” Then he plopped himself down in front of my keyboard and began ferreting through folders. I was aghast, and then amazed, and then astounded.

“Look here,” he said. “I think this fellow is going to be another Dickens. And read this! If I take out the comma and replace it with a period, why it is a splendid piece of work. As good as any Tennyson I know.”

I was impressed. “What did you think my poetry?” I asked. “Or my stories, or…what did you read?”

He turned to me and said, “What is this drawer of commas for? And these adverbs-- they are quite pesky, don’t you think?”

I blinked. “They are tools of the trade, sir.”

“And would you build a house with staples, or with nails?” he asked.

“With both, I think.”

“Well, maybe so,” he said, and sighed, then pointed to my work. “For that I’ll give a 3.5.”

Oh my, I can’t begin to tell how sad I felt. “Average?” I said. “You call this average?” I was incensed.

Just then a letter came in my mailbox. “FoxyMeonThursday” had just read my story, and she thought it was good!

“Look,” I said, “she gave me a 4! So there!”

“Dear Wren,” the critic said, for that’s what I was calling him by then. “They’re only numbers, not your worth. So what if they don’t all agree? Learn what you can from them. They are not right, nor are they wrong. They’re just opinions, don’t you know?”

I had to ponder that a while, but then he said, “I must be on my way. Come visit me some day.”

This happened quite some time ago, and in that year I’ve roamed the town and climbed its hills, visiting that man’s port and others. There are castles here, and lean-to’s; and the people here, God bless them, are all real despite their names.

I have learned to temper what I read and hear with my own truth. As long as you can do that, and stay open in your mind to learn, then Welcome is the place for you.

Please come again, my friend.