on the spit.
“You can thank Stretch for this one,” I told him, and related our under-the-table experience.
“I have no idea if it belonged to John, but it was there , between two planks of the deck, under the table where he was sitting when I met him.”
“Another interesting possible clue,” he said, turning the buckle over in his fin gers to examine it. “A lot of this kind of thing was sold after that tragedy, and in lots of places, even on the West Coast. Even if it did belong to him, he could have picked it up almost anywhere, but I’ll put it with the information on why and where it came from. Anything else?”
I shook my head.
He nodded, smiled again, and got up, ready to leave.
“The names are particularly worthy of note. Julia didn’t catch it and neither did I until you made it clear. So, you see, I mean it when I say that if you think of anything else that might be helpful, call me. Even little things can make a difference. And you probably saw as much of him as anyone here—and paid more attention. There may be something else you’ll remember,” he said, putting on his coat and hat at the door.
I promised to do that and he was soon gone, having copied the names on my list into the report on his clipboard and given Stretch a last pat at the door.
From the window over the kitchen sink I watched him back his car out of the drive, noticing that there was at least an inch of snow on the ground and more was falling to blanket it, silently now that the wind had died.
Winter had, indeed, come to Homer, putting an end to most of my walks on the spit and reminding me to call the neighbor who plows the snow from my driveway with his Bobcat when necessary. Perhaps I wouldn’t with this first snowfall, but I surely would soon. Still, for some reason, this year as I watched the snow fall for a moment or two, I felt that winter was closing in on me, limiting my options. Perhaps I should have gone south, but it was too late now, as I had no inclination to drive the Alaska Highway in winter weather.
In compensation, I put more wood on the dying fire and turned on the television to watch the evening news.
EIGHT
THE NEXT MORNING THE TEMPERATURE HAD RISEN as the sun came out and was melting the inch or so of snow into slush and water that ran in small creeks or formed puddles in the low spots in my drive. Even those soon disappeared.
By the time I was up and dressed for the day most of the white stuff was gone, but I knew it would soon be back and winter was definitely on the way.
Before going up to finally start sorting out the upstairs closet, I was sitting at the table with a second cup of coffee, making a list of things that my house and car would need in preparation for the approaching winter—summer tires swapped for studded winter ones, for instance—when there was a knock at my door. I opened it to find Lew Joiner on the step with a couple of books in hand.
While he hung up his coat on a hook by the door I poured him a cup of coffee and took it to the table, where he had laid down the books and found himself a chair across from where I had been sitting.
“Brought you another book on the revolution,” he told me, handing one across the table. “David McCullough’s new one— 1776 . It’s terrific!”
“Oh, good. I’ve been wanting to read it. Thanks, Lew,” I told him. “What’s the other?”
He slid a larger book across the table as he gave me the title, “ Great American Documents . This one’s got everything from the Mayflower Compact and the Declaration of Independence to . . . well, how long has it been since you read the Constitution and the Bill of Rights?”
I shook my head.
“A very long time, I’m afraid,” I told him.
“Well, I’ve got copies of both the Constitution and the Bill of Rights if you want to read them. You can take your time. There’s no rush, but I gotta have these two back when you finish ’em. Both are bound for my permanent
“You can thank Stretch for this one,” I told him, and related our under-the-table experience.
“I have no idea if it belonged to John, but it was there , between two planks of the deck, under the table where he was sitting when I met him.”
“Another interesting possible clue,” he said, turning the buckle over in his fin gers to examine it. “A lot of this kind of thing was sold after that tragedy, and in lots of places, even on the West Coast. Even if it did belong to him, he could have picked it up almost anywhere, but I’ll put it with the information on why and where it came from. Anything else?”
I shook my head.
He nodded, smiled again, and got up, ready to leave.
“The names are particularly worthy of note. Julia didn’t catch it and neither did I until you made it clear. So, you see, I mean it when I say that if you think of anything else that might be helpful, call me. Even little things can make a difference. And you probably saw as much of him as anyone here—and paid more attention. There may be something else you’ll remember,” he said, putting on his coat and hat at the door.
I promised to do that and he was soon gone, having copied the names on my list into the report on his clipboard and given Stretch a last pat at the door.
From the window over the kitchen sink I watched him back his car out of the drive, noticing that there was at least an inch of snow on the ground and more was falling to blanket it, silently now that the wind had died.
Winter had, indeed, come to Homer, putting an end to most of my walks on the spit and reminding me to call the neighbor who plows the snow from my driveway with his Bobcat when necessary. Perhaps I wouldn’t with this first snowfall, but I surely would soon. Still, for some reason, this year as I watched the snow fall for a moment or two, I felt that winter was closing in on me, limiting my options. Perhaps I should have gone south, but it was too late now, as I had no inclination to drive the Alaska Highway in winter weather.
In compensation, I put more wood on the dying fire and turned on the television to watch the evening news.
EIGHT
THE NEXT MORNING THE TEMPERATURE HAD RISEN as the sun came out and was melting the inch or so of snow into slush and water that ran in small creeks or formed puddles in the low spots in my drive. Even those soon disappeared.
By the time I was up and dressed for the day most of the white stuff was gone, but I knew it would soon be back and winter was definitely on the way.
Before going up to finally start sorting out the upstairs closet, I was sitting at the table with a second cup of coffee, making a list of things that my house and car would need in preparation for the approaching winter—summer tires swapped for studded winter ones, for instance—when there was a knock at my door. I opened it to find Lew Joiner on the step with a couple of books in hand.
While he hung up his coat on a hook by the door I poured him a cup of coffee and took it to the table, where he had laid down the books and found himself a chair across from where I had been sitting.
“Brought you another book on the revolution,” he told me, handing one across the table. “David McCullough’s new one— 1776 . It’s terrific!”
“Oh, good. I’ve been wanting to read it. Thanks, Lew,” I told him. “What’s the other?”
He slid a larger book across the table as he gave me the title, “ Great American Documents . This one’s got everything from the Mayflower Compact and the Declaration of Independence to . . . well, how long has it been since you read the Constitution and the Bill of Rights?”
I shook my head.
“A very long time, I’m afraid,” I told him.
“Well, I’ve got copies of both the Constitution and the Bill of Rights if you want to read them. You can take your time. There’s no rush, but I gotta have these two back when you finish ’em. Both are bound for my permanent
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