MY LIFE AS A SCRIVENER

         Contrary to rumor, I did not descend directly from Mt. Olympus as a writer. My mentoress guided me down the slope. She recycled me from the leavings of the night's second smile: "the clowns, fools and the unredeemable." To repay her the favor, I am not mentioning her name. I doubt she cares to look out the window and find her house surrounded by villagers holding torches and screaming for her blood.

         "Write these stories down," she would say. In the late summer of 2000, with time on my hands, I began to do just that, emailing my scribbles to her and a few other people I was trying to get off my Christmas card list. She chose the right defense and punted, referring me to a certain editor of a web site that served as an alternative newspaper for the city of Ketchikan, Alaska. I do not know what incriminating information she had on this poor man, but he offered to publish a column of my meanderings twice a week.

         Unsuspecting web-surfers typing in the URL of Kanoe.com, expecting to read Trout Pomeroy or other talented writers, found my drivel about black walnut trees, Bernie Carbo and my desire to motor to Ketchikan to see what was really there. My career as a columnist was mercifully short. Four months later the site went the way of Colliers, E-Toys and Boo.com, another victim of the dot.com bust. I was left to wander in the wilderness.

         For a time, two other writers and I posted to our own web site. Despite impressive graphics, we found the one spot on the web not overrun by visitors. New postings were not frequent, and content was limited, but this writing for Three-On-The-Tree.com did relieve my itch. It was in August 2001 that Pam came along and suggested Stories.com. I shouldn’t comment on their standards, but to give the reader an idea, I was accepted as a member. For the longest time, I represented the "(1)" after Pam's name on her own portfolio. I have no idea how much she paid to keep from being thrown out of the group, but she bore her shame nobly. Some members even still talk to her.

         About the time I joined, I had the urge to drive to Ketchikan again. I wrote another travel story but never posted it. This past week I revisited my research and found that directions were the same as the year before:

Drive north to Albany, pick up I-90 and head west to Illinois and then:
                   [a] Right to St. Paul, passing by Eau Claire, Wisconsin on the way;
                   [b] Left to North Dakota, ignoring Grand Forks, to I-29;
                   [c] Take a right, follow I-29 to Canada, Provincial Highway 75 in direction of Winnipeg;
                   [d] Pick up Trans Canada 100 to Trans Canada 1;
Be careful here, it gets tricky.
                   [e] About 350 miles later, near Regina, Saskatchewan, hang a right on Provincial Highway 6, proceed ten miles to Provincial Highway 11;
                   [f] Make a half-left on 11 and, past Saskatoon, merge into Yellowhead 16.
We are almost there now!
                   [g] Another 1,225 miles of pedal-to-the-metal driving takes you to the US border and a 90 mile ferry trip to Ketchikan.
It is a little jaunt of 3,543 miles, 64 hours of driving time.

         I didn't go into this detail when I wrote the first travelogue in December 2000. I opened with Richard Hannay asking Mr. Memory how far it was from Winnipeg to Montreal. Hitchcock used this lede to frame the chase in “The 39 Steps,” so why not me? I found out that many hadn’t any idea what I was talking about, but I got to the nutgraf very quickly. The story was padded by ruling out alternative methods of travel, after which I brought the piece round to a conclusion in which I asked Mr. Memory the mileage from Chatham, New York to Ketchikan.

         One resident of Ketchikan understood. She wrote, "Be sure and to warn me when you're arriving so I can split for Seattle." I did not send her the second version. It was more personal in nature. The directions were more thorough, but I lapsed into a dog sans pony show. I envisioned sheepdog and self, like Fonda and Hopper, out to see North America. I pulled out every trick in the writer’s book, even imagining Yellowhead 16 as the Yellow Brick Road. We passed motor homes on Yellowhead 16, the dog barking furiously at the white-haired drivers. I was shameless. I drew parallels between my wagon and the Joad's truck. When I concluded by having the dog singing "I'm so lonesome I could die", I realized I had gone over the top and buried this dead fish in a time capsule.

         Now I have been notifed that my nephew, the Great White Hope of carrying on the Lidle name, is to be married in Madison, Wisconsin late in September. Madison would be about a third of the way to Ketchikan. I could combine Ken's big day with my twice-postponed journey to the left coast. On the way back, I could scout real estate in eastern Montana or the Upper Peninsula. A man can't have enough hiding places.

         I better not publicize my ideas. Ken just might move the ceremony to Sheboygan and not tell me. If I remember correctly, he fears dogs, or is it uncles? So remember, dear reader, this piece is not being published. You did not read it. If you say you did, I will deny it. Now I must ascend Olympus again. My teacher is yelling at me for changing to second person voice in this paragraph. In the interim, watch this space.

Valatie May 29, 2002