Cottagecore: Roadtrip Ch. 12 - Cottage
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When I talked with my parents from Columbus, my dad mentioned that I could visit the town where my Granddad and his parents were born with just a little detour south. It would add a couple of hours to my drive to the beach, but I'd never visited the Appalachians, and I'd visit a couple of new states for the first time.
Glen Webb was a company coal town in the bottom of the Appalachian coal belt. It sat in a narrow valley in the New River's watershed. My great-grandparents had brought Grandad to California when he was a boy, but he still thought of himself as a mountain man even though he'd lived most of his life in the Golden State. His memories were tinged with nostalgia, but his parents, my MeeMaw and PaPaw, didn't talk about it much.
Grandad and his siblings were all born at home, just like his parents, and their parents, and so on. Over time, though, most of the family had left for better opportunities, spreading out across what is now the Rust Belt. I didn't know many of them beyond stories and photos.
Grandad told stories about the family farm, up Twins Hollers a ways out of town. The farm provided what they ate growing up, or at least it did during the hard times, and there had been plenty of those. Nobody lived on the farm now, but the family wouldn't sell it. Not that there were any buyers, he said with a shrug.
I remember stories about an apple orchard, and plum and cherry and nut trees, bottomlands for crops, pastures and a barn for livestock, and a big vegetable garden. Chickens in the yard and draft horses in the barn, the whole thing. He'd heard there had been a still or two up the hollers. More recently, he said, there might be other cash crops they grew up where the constables couldn't look too close.
By the time I visited, there wasn't much left to see. The mines had closed around the time my dad was born. Most mining families were left destitute a generation later, when the conglomerate that owned their pensions transferred its assets, held onto its liabilities, and declared the rotting shell bankrupt. Tourism and vacation homes helped the local economy some, but lots of folks survived on Social Security and disability payments and not much else.
The Great Briar helped too, an old hotel and spa on the outskirts of town, built on a broad stone bench above the river. Once, there had been other grand lodges, but most had closed in the 1960s or earlier. Now, the huge old hotel was the only one left, a faded reminder of a when Presidents and Senators fled Washington's heat and humidity for summers in the cool mountains. The Appalachian Overlook, my dad called it.
A few wealthy families apparently owned manors, too, grand lodges on huge estates left over from the Robber Baron days, but they were universes unto themselves. Grandad was pretty even-keel most of the time, but he saved some loud scorn for the manor-holders. They didn't contribute to the area economy and the owners and staff treated the locals like hicks and hillbillies.
The highway used to run through the center of Webb, but a bypass now diverted it away. At the bottom of the offramp, a gas station shared its parking lot with a dollar store and check cashing business. A few blocks further, I saw faded stores and papered-over storefronts. A couple of cafés and taverns still seemed to be in business. Aside from a couple of pickup trucks, there was nobody on the streets.
A deep canal ran perpendicular to the main business street, dividing two sides of the residential section. A brisk, deep stream ran between steep masonry and concrete walls. Ailanthus and some willows grew in cracks.
Grandad said the river was an open sewer when he was a boy, filled with mine waste and raw sewage. The water seemed clean enough now. The worst I could see was plastic trash and a few tires embedded in the muddy banks.
Houses faced each other across the canal, with worn two-lane roads on either side. A cracked sidewalk separated the creek from the road, with a curb of battered bluestone separating the sidewalk from the canal below.
A few narrow streets ran perpendicular up the steep hills behind the houses, but most homes faced each other on either side of the canal. They were clean, but many needed a new coat of paint or siding. The roofs were patched, window boxes were empty, and there were few signs of cheer.
What I liked most were the trees. Massive hardwoods stood in front of almost every house. I recognized maples, sycamores, and oaks, but there were other broadleaf trees as well. Birches maybe? They weren't trees I knew from California. The morning sun was hot and getting hotter, but the trees created a deep shade that seemed cooler than the real temperature.
I found the right address and stepped out of my truck. It was midmorning and getting sticky. The house was a neat two-story yellow brick box with a walkway up four stairs from the sidewalk and a small garage at the back, up a gravel drive at the side of the house.
Hostas and hydrangeas grew in the shadows of the overhanging roof. Grandad had planted his yard with the same plants, although they struggled in the California dryness. A giant shaggy maple tree filled one side of the front yard. I could see other tall trees in the back too.
I knocked to see if anybody was home. Dad said he thought my family had gone down to the beach for the week, but it would be a shame not to introduce myself if somebody was around. I knocked again and then gave up. I took a few pictures to send to my dad.
I was just about to leave when I heard from behind me, "why are you taking pictures of my house?"
I turned and found a guy a few years older than me on a mountain bike. He was spattered with mud, just back from a ride.
"Hey there," I said. "My Grandad was born here. I thought he'd like some pictures."
He looked at me, squinting. "You're Larry's grandson, Tommy's boy, aren't you? Yeah, Cali plates on your truck give you away." He laughed. "I should have known, you look just like the rest of us. Well, maybe a bigger version that most of us, but McGee for sure. On your way to college, yeah?"
"Yeah, that's me. I'm Jon. You?"
"I'm Pete, your cousin. Technically your second cousin I guess. Our great-great-grandparents were Old Hank and Edith, your Grandad and my Grandma are brother and sister, and both of them married McGraws. First cousins, I think, but I can't remember for sure."
I shrugged. The family sometimes talked bout the aunts and uncles and cousins after dinner, but none of it really stuck. As much as I love history, they were just names to me.
Pete continued. "My Mamaw has it down in her head mostly, both our family and everybody who married into it. Plus there are family Bibles with everything written down. So we're some sort of cousins on the McGraw side too. What are you doing here?"
"Just passing through. I wanted to see the house. I've heard my Grandad's stories."
"Come in, let me show you around, what are your plans? How long are you staying? The family will be sorry to have missed you but they're all down in Myrtle."
"I'm sorry to have missed them. I've just been driving East seeing places I've read about. Cliff dwellings and the Great Plains and the Mississippi. Hiking and riding my bikes, having a little fun before I start college. I didn't plan on driving this far south but the floods up north changed all that."
"Harvard, right? Look at you, Mr. Ivy League. Not bad!"
I said nervously, "I got into Harvard but ended up choosing A. Ham."
"Oh shit!" Pete laughed. "Your Grandad must be pissed!"
I laughed. "He was, but Grandma brought him around. Harvard would have been cool, for Uncle Jimmy. A. Ham. just fit me better. When I got a full ride, it sealed the deal. But yeah, he was pissed at first."
One of Grandad's uncles had worked himself into Harvard when coal miners didn't go to college, much less the Ivy League, much less Harvard. Uncle Jimmy had a great first two years, but he didn't make it off of Omaha Beach and our family had been chasing his place in Cambridge ever since.
"I'll keep your secret," Pete said with a wink. "Plus, Henry—your cousin Henry—he just graduated from Harvard Law, so there's that."
Eager to change the subject off of me, I asked, "how was your ride? I've been spending a lot of time on my bikes since I left home."
"There are some killer trails around here. Lots of the old mine tracks have been converted. Or abandoned and taken over. There's a great one we could do tomorrow if you're up for it. Up behind the farm. It's a secret. If it ever gets written up it'll be a big deal, but for now it's ours."
"That would awesome, I'd love to stay if that's okay." The beach could wait a day if there was a killer trail. Plus I'd like to get to know Pete.
"Sure thing, just let me get cleaned up and we can have a lunch if you're hungry."
I nodded and reached into the truck to grab my backpack. "Do you mind if I have a shower too? I've been living a little rough."
"Sure, bud. I'll take the outside shower to get the mud off and you can take the inside. You must have some dirty laundry, bring that too and you can do it before you get back on the road. How long will you stay?"
"I didn't have any plants to stay at all. My dad thought everybody would be down at the beach so I was just going to send some pictures home. I'm headed to the beach myself. That ride sounds sweet, though."
"Cool," he said, "I leave for my last year at UVA the day after tomorrow, you're welcome to stay until then if you want."
"Okay, awesome. I'm trying to decide what's next from here. I've read great things about the beaches in Maryland and Delaware. But I was also thinking about D.C., all the museums and stuff."
"Beaches for sure," Pete said. "Doesn't A. Ham have a semester in Washington?" I nodded. "You'll have plenty of chance to see everything then, or get an externship during spring break with all your fancy connections," he smiled. "The beaches are awesome. Warm water and there's plenty of, uh, scenery if you're looking."
I laughed, trying not to blush. "Sold."
"Or if you want more McGees and McGraws, drive an extra day down to Myrtle. They'd love to have you. But I don't recommend it. It's all the old folks. You'll see them when you come for Thanksgiving. You ARE coming for Thanksgiving, right?"
"I'd love to, if this is an official invite."
"We aren't formal around here, don't wait for an RSVP card. Family within two days' drive is expected to come or there's hell to pay. Unless you're in the hospital or jail, I guess," he laughed. "We've had both."
I followed Pete up the driveway and around back of the house. He leaned his muddy bike against the garage and started to strip off his dirty riding gear, revealing a broad, hairy chest. Our builds were similar, but I was a few inches taller—he was probably shy of six foot by an inch or so—and he was broader with more muscle. UVA left time for the gym, I thought.
Pete's broad shoulders gave way to a trim, narrow waist. His flat stomach and taught muscles showed hard work outside, in addition to his gym-toned body. I hoped he hadn't caught me staring, thank god for sunglasses.
Was I really checking out my cousin? I guess so, but as soon as the thought occurred to me, it evaporated. I'd surely hook up with Pete if he was a stranger, but even as a distant cousin, my attraction to was gone. Too taboo I guess.
"If you want to shower now, head inside and go upstairs. I'll clean up out here. If you don't overdo it there's enough hot water for both of us."
"Thanks," I said as I went inside. As I took a hasty shower, I couldn't help thinking how much alike Pete and I looked. He knew I was his cousin at a glance, and I felt like I was looking in a carnival mirror when I saw him—we were the same, but different.
My eyes are green while his are, what? Hazel, or maybe he'd say brown? I'll bet they looked different based on how bright the sun is. We have the same strong jaw, and the same dark brown hair. I normally keep my hair short, but I'd grown it out over the summer and could see his had the same wave as mine when it got long.
He had more body hair than me, and we weren't identical—my nose and lips are thinner, my skin tone darker, and my nipples were smaller—but anybody who saw us would know we're related, maybe even think we're brothers. Growing up as an only child with just girl cousins close by, I liked that Pete and I looked alike.
By the time I got back downstairs, Pete was finishing washing his bike after his shower. I liked that he took care of his equipment.
Pete laughed when he saw that we were wearing nearly identical running shorts, his Virginia orange and mine A.-Ham indigo. I was carrying my shirt—I still wasn't used to the humidity—but his plain white tee matched what I had in my hand. I was also commando because I'd run out of clean underwear.
"Twinsie Tuesday but on Thursday?" he laughed.
"This has been all I've worn for the last few months. Campus'll be a lot more formal so I'd best take advantage of shorts and tees while I can get away with it."
"UVA is super stuffy," he said sympathetically. "Comfort is everything when I can get away with it. I should have gone commando too, it's already hot down there."
I laughed.
"How'd you get scraped up?" Pete asked. The scratches from my afternoon with Todd were still vivid.
"Rug burns," I laughed. Pete cocked his eyebrow and I laughed again. "A small price to pay," I added with a smirk.
Pete raised an eyebrow but didn't press me. "So," he said switching gears abruptly, "I planned to spend the day . . . relaxing. Before I started down the mountain, I took a few big rips of Uncle Dickie's Deep Marsh Mindfuck. I've got a pretty good buzz coming on. No pressure, just wanted to throw it out there if you want to join me in a smoke."
"Not really my thing," I admitted. "THC does a number on me." I was trying hard not to sound judgmental. "When I get stoned, I zone out. I usually just pass out. You should see some of the shit my friends did to me at parties after I got high."
I could tell Pete was disappointed, but he shrugged "no problem" and went into the ancient garage fridge to get an unlabeled bottle. "This is Uncle Dickie's lager. We also have some of his IPA, but it tastes like perfume to me, bitter perfume."
"The beer is perfect on a hot day," I lied. I didn't want to come across as a double-scold. "I don't think I've heard of Unkle Dickie." Was he my Grandad's generation or my Dad's?
"You like dickie?" Pete teased. Without waiting for my answer, he continued, "really, you don't want to meet him. He grows great weed and makes good beer, but he's a crabby old bastard who's pissed off at the world. He worked in the mines and he's right to be pissed. He's sick and broken down, and he takes it out on everybody around him. I mostly stay away."
Maybe that's why the family didn't talk much about Uncle Dickie.
Pete said, "I'm starving, by the way, and only going to get hungrier." He smirked. "Do you like trout? I caught some nice brownies yesterday. We could fire up the grill if that sounds good."
"Awesome," I said. "I can do the grill if you want?"
"Can you make a salad? Since everybody's gone, the garden's out of control. Plus if you've been camping, your hippy ass is probably dying for some vegetables."
When I raised my eyebrow, he said, "my roommate's from California. `The land of fruits and nuts,' we tease. All winter long he bitches about the shitty salad bar."
He wasn't wrong about the salad, so I grabbed a basket and headed into the garden. It was full of different types of lettuce, plus peas, cucumbers, onions, herbs, and the most perfect tomatoes I had seen outside of my Grandad's garden.
Pete took a few more rips on his pipe while the grill-fire kindled. I made a sharp vinaigrette in the kitchen and we ate like kings, bullshitting about college and family in the shade of a massive sycamore behind the house. By the time we were done it was sweltering, muggier than I'd ever felt.
"C'mon," said Pete after we'd cleaned up, "follow me." He was good and stoned by now, not quite slurring but definitely faded.
Pete led me into the house and down a steep, narrow flight of stairs into a finished basement that looked brighter than the rest of the house. "We had to do some foundation work a couple of years ago so Dad and I dug out the old cellar and finished it." It was cool and dark, with a slate floor that looked like it'd been there forever but must have been new to the renovation.
Pete saw me checking out the stone. "Henry's idea. We salvaged it from outside the saltworks up at the farm. Saved a ton of money. It's not like anybody's going to be making any more salt any time soon."
"One of my great-grandmothers was an architect. She'd have gone on and on about the stone."
Pete nodded. "It keeps cool too. This is the place to rest. You take the couch."
Pete flopped down on the floor below me, lengthwise with the sofa, where I lay down. We kept talking about nothing much, just shooting the shit. Pete asked, "so do you black out from weed, or just go to sleep?"
"I don't know, both I guess? I go to sleep so deeply that my friends can draw on my face, strip me naked, teabag me and take pictures, just like a blackout drunk."
"Some of that doesn't sound so bad," said Pete like he was talking to himself. "Well, too bad, this is a killer high." Without a transition, Pete said, "so, you like guys." Not a question.
"Yeah, I'm still figuring it out," I shrugged with a smile. "Well, I think I've figured things out. On my road trip I've done just about everything you can do with guys, and I've had a great time doing it."
Pete laughed too. "That's hot. You'll have to tell me some stories. Me too, by the way. Guys, I mean. I couldn't do much whoring this summer. There have been a few tourists, but there's not much talent up here in the hills."
I laughed. "I'm the only guy my age in our family in California, it's nice to meet another guy. Even better that you're gay."
"Henry too. You'll love him. He's starting a fancy job in Chicago in a couple of weeks, he'll be really busy, but you'll get to meet him during a break. He loves it here."
"Wow, two gay cousins when I didn't have any an hour ago. Awesome."
"It's kind of a rite of passage around here, or at least it used to be. Once we hit 14 or 15, the older cousins show the younger guys the way around. Some like me and Henry keep with it and date guys, most others just got their rocks off for a few years and then move on to girls."
"Wow," I said. "I would have thought there's be a stigma."
"Maybe," he shrugged. "Nobody really thought of it as `gay' at least not way back when. Girls weren't as easy as they are now. Guys were horny and showed each other how to get off. It was probably mostly just circle jerks in the barn, not real sex, but I've heard some stories."
"Yeah?" I asked, curious.
"Henry told me about some barn parties the older cousins used to have, about 10 years ago when he'd just got his big boy dick. Crazy stuff. Half the wresting team or the Eagle Scouts, that sort of thing. I think he might be bullshitting me, but he swears they happened.
"That sounds like a video," I said with a smile. "A bunch of hot young guys in a hay loft, getting each other off? I'd watch that."
Pete snorted. "I have watched that," he said, adjusting his dick with a flick of his thumb. After a second, he added, "I don't know about hot young guys, though. Henry's hot enough, for sure, he looks like the two of us, but I don't know about anybody else. The town's been dying off for ages. I doubt there was too much to look at even ten years ago."
"Do you think it mattered?" I wondered. I wondered how choosy I'd be if I'd been offered a barn orgy when I was fourteen.
Pete laughed again. "You hain't seen some of these fellers from around these here parts," he said with an exaggerated accent. "That is, not unless you fuck with a paper bag over their head."
"That's one thing I tried yet," I said lightly.
"You said you've got lucky on the trip?" Pete asked.
"And then some," I said. "I lost my v-card the night before I started my trip. My best friend Dan and I came out to each other."
"And then you came on each other?" Pete asked, with a stony snicker.
"Not much sleep that night," I agreed.
"What else?" Pete asked, curious not pervy. "Details, man."
"I've been with about ten guys since Dan," I said. "Well, maybe fifteen. I fucked my first guy in New Mexico, I got fucked the first time a couple of days later in Oklahoma. I guess that was also my first threesome. A lot of head, a lot of fucking. I like to top. And suck dick."
"Wait a minute," Pete said laughing. "Your `first' threesome? I've never done that and I've been fucking around with guys since high school. Lucky!"
"Right place and right time, I guess," I shrugged. "Well, that and I knew I wasn't going to meet these guys ever again. So long as I felt safe, I did what I wanted without worrying about getting judged."
"How many threesomes," Pete asked.
I decided to play it up a little. "Well, in Oklahoma it was Eric and Jeremy, so that's one. Eric was this big blond stud and Jem was a little guy, but a firecracker. Jem broke me in and Erick just . . . broke me. Nine inches at least. Then at the quarry a few days later, I met a group of guys. I don't remember all their names, but they were ranch hands and horny as fuck."
"I'd watch that video," said Pete.
"It was a little crazy, but it was so so hot. After that, in Wisconsin, Guy and Liam, French Canadian truckers I shared a hotel room with. And then the hotel's manager, but not until after the truckers left."
Pete adjusted his dick again. "Is it weird with a couple? I mean, I know it's hot when it's a video, but did you ever feel like a third wheel."
"None of them were couples," I said. "Or not really. Guy and Liam drove truck together, but one of them had just broken up with his boyfriend. He was just going to watch . . ."
". . . oh, wow," whispered Pete.
". . . but he joined in the next morning."
"You've had more dick in the last few months than I've had all year," Pete grumbled good-naturedly.
"You said not much action around here?"
"There's some," Pete said with a little frustration, "but it's weird. There's an arcade outside of town, but it's not my thing."
I thought Pete must be referring to the mid-sized city to our east, closer to the state line. "Arcade?" I said. "Like video games? That seems . . . random."
Pete snorted. "Not that kind of arcade. It's a blue store, a porn store, with a backroom. Well, a basement. You give the password and then use quarters to watch videos. There are some glory holes cut between the booths. It's super anonymous. Or at least, if you try to look through one of the holes, you're likely to get a dick in your eye."
"Ouch," I laughed. "That sounds . . .." I trailed off. What? I thought.
"Sketchy?" said Pete, voicing my main concern before it had even crystallized in my mind. "It is. Dangerous? Not really."
"It can't be legal, can it?" I said. "I'd worry about police."
"They must have some deal with the constable," Pete said with a scowl. "Head, probably. Honestly, though, I only went once, on a dare really. It wasn't my scene at all. I want to know who's sucking my cock . . ."
". . . Or whose cock I'm sucking . . ." I interrupted.
Pete laughed. "I've seen videos of guys fucking through glory holes, but that's too much for me."
"I don't think it'd be my scene either," I said. "What about apps?" I hadn't downloaded anything, but I knew that lots of guys use them.
"Around here, most of the guys on the apps are anon. Blurry photos and rando names. Trolling for photos or just endless chatting. And then, if I find somebody's actually down for some action I want to meet, most of the time I find out that I went to school with them."
I thought about what it would be like to stumble across one of my classmates trolling online for anonymous dick. "That could be hot," I thought aloud.
". . . or not," Pete concluded. "So much shame and embarrassment. It kills the fun of fucking somebody I've known since we were kids. Well, mostly," he added with a smirk. "Sometimes it's pretty hot."
"I could think of some of my friends I'd get together with if I had the chance, even if they were closeted." Still, it would probably be weird afterwards.
"If it gets uncomfortable, it's mostly after the first couple of hook-ups," said Pete. "They want a down-low FWB thing, or they only come sniffing around when they're buzzed or desperate. Sometimes it's fun, but just as often, it's kind of gross, at least afterwards. I feel like their shame rubs off on me."
I could see how that could get old. "What about clubs or bars?" I knew there were 18-and-under clubs down in Fresno and Visalia, the big cities near where I'd grown up. Plus, Pete must be close to 21.
"Well, there's the Roadhouse between here and town," he said. "Folks joke it's the gayest bar in the county after midnight on a weekend, but it gets pretty sketchy too."
It took me a second to understand what Pete was saying. "So `straight' guys get drunk and hook up with guys at the end of the night?"
"If you call a blowjob in the cab of a pickup a hook-up, or even just a nervous hand-job," said Pete with a grimace.
It sounded like it could be pretty hot to me, at least potentially, but I guess it could feel pretty shameful too. "Hand-jobs not your thing?" I said lightly.
Pete laughed. "Don't get me wrong, brother," he said, "I love a good handy, and sloppy drunk head is awesome. I just don't like needing to hide it."
I joked, "so I guess there are no gay clubs in the area?"
Pete thought I was serious. "There's a club in Lexington, but I hate the music they play. Roanoke is the next closest that matters, but that's a couple hours from here on a good day. If I want to go dancing, I usually just head back to Charlottsville for a couple of days. Even in the summer, it's way better than anywhere closer."
"So you don't have a boyfriend?" I guessed.
"Nothing serious," said Pete. "After finals last semester I hooked up with a guy from one of my classes. We'd been flirting since Spring Break. He's in Portland for the summer but we've been chatting." He sounded hopeful.
"I hate long distance," I said, and told him a little bit more about my situation with Dan.
"That sounds like it sucks," said Pete. "At least it's not getting in the way of you having some fun."I agreed. "So what are you going to do after UVA?" I asked to change the subject. I didn't want to talk about Dan, I decided.
"I hope to follow Henry to Harvard Law," Pete said. "My grades are good enough. So long as I rock the exams, I have a good shot. Henry's already made a bunch of good connections I can use if I get in."
Pete also talked about the family in more detail than I'd absorbed before. He lived in the house with his parents. He'd spent the summer working for the local newspaper and helping his dad get the house ready to sell.
"Everybody's leaving," he said. Most of the family had spread out across the Midwest, Pennsylvania and Ohio mostly. Others had settled around D.C. and some in New England. The seniors all headed to Florida eventually.
"We're the only ones left now, other than Henry's family and Uncle Dickie, and all getting ready to move too. Henry's been in D.C. this summer. He's the only one who really likes it. He spent a bunch of time out here studying for the bar, but he'll never live here. Pretty soon, there won't be anybody left."
"You're not moving back?" I asked, knowing the answer.
"I'm not cut out to be a small-town lawyer. I'm planning to be an environmental lawyer, the sort they hate around these parts. I'll probably end up in D.C."
We lapsed into silence after a while, and eventually we both drifted off to sleep. Pete stayed stoned the rest of the night, which didn't stop us from making another huge meal, this time a salad with grilled trout instead of grilled trout with salad. I slept like a stone on the basement couch, the best bed I'd had in a long time.
The next morning, we didn't rush to get up. Pete said the mountains were cooler and he didn't seem to be in a hurry to get going so I just followed his lead.
The road to the farm headed west out of town. It followed the bottom of a deep canyon carved by the river it ran beside. Here and there were drill marks, where engineers had widened the canyon walls to allow for the road, but it looked like it mostly tracked the river's natural course.
The river was fast-flowing and deep, maybe 30 yards wide. It flowed east, collecting the streams and rills that drained the hills and hollers on both sides of the road. We drove slightly uphill, against the stream's flow. Maples and oaks and other hardwoods I didn't recognize hugged the shoulder and grew up the steep hillsides. Creepers and brambles choked the understory.
The river was to our south, on the driver's side. Rusted railroad tracks ran between the road and the river. Trestles spanned every stream crossing, but some of them looked like they hadn't been cleared of vines in years.
While the morning sun burned bright above us, inside the canyon, it felt cool and close. With the rushing river and the splash of streams and waterfalls, the canyon seemed a million miles from California's hot, dry environment. I liked it, but I figured some people might feel claustrophobic, bound in by the steep walls and the choking plants.
Pete didn't seem to notice. "The farm's been in the family for more than 100 years," he said. "Until the war, folks lived in town during the summer. Once it warmed up every spring, the women would bring the kids out and live at the farm while the men worked the mines. They'd come out on their days off to help."
"Granddad remembers visiting," I said. "They'd drive out during the summers and spend weeks here.
He said nobody much shares his happy memories, not even his dad."
"It was hard. As the family grew, folks started living on the farm year-round, but I don't think anybody loved it. They brought electricity out in the 1950s or maybe 60s. They finally put a toilet indoors in the 50s, I think. When the county expanded the road and ran the power and telephone lines it got a little easier, but there are stories of the family using a push-car to get to town in an emergency."
"Is that why nobody lives there now?" I asked.
Pete nodded. "Too much work. Henry's the only one who loves it, well, Henry and me. It's in a trust now. It can't be sold outside the family, and there's a little money for upkeep, but it mostly sits vacant other than holidays and reunions. Henry has some grand plans, but we'll see about that."
Before I could ask what Henry had in mind, Pete warned me to slow down. We drove over a steel truss bridge, its green paint losing its battle against the rust. Below, a lively stream emptied out of the mountain on our side of the highway.
"Turn in at that mailbox up there on the right," Pete said, "between the walnut trees."
Even with Pete's warning, I almost missed the turnoff. The shoulder hadn't been mowed and the mailbox seemed to appear from nowhere amid a tangle of blackberry bushes. If it wasn't for the trees as a marker, I might not have even seen the driveway.
The driveway led back under a canopy of hardwood trees, walnuts and others I didn't recognize. Similar to walnuts. Hickory maybe? Granddad had talked about cracking hickory nuts as a boy. There was an understory of what looked like blueberry or huckleberry bushes, and plenty more blackberry thickets.
"This driveway keeps going back up behind the farm," Pete explained, "but you'd need a quad to get much further. Two hollers meet up behind the orchard. There's High Holler, we'll ride up there today to the Necklace, and Low Holler to the left. It empties into the swamp down beyond the other side of the pasture," he said, gesturing to the driver's side.
"Is that why they call it Twins Hollers?" I asked?
"Maybe," said Pete, "but Old Hank and Edith had two sets of twins and some of their kids had twins too. Sort of ran in the family. So far as we know we're the only ones ever to live up here, so some folks joke that all those aunts and uncles are the twins."
I drove slowly up the gravel road, which rose to meet the hillside. To my left, was a broad flat grassy field, more than five acres, which fronted the road. Pastureland, by the looks of it, fallow. Beyond it were enormous trees and, based on Pete's comment, swampland. On our right, a turned field stood level with the thickly treed riverbank beyond.
Pete saw me looking around. "Pastureland to the left. We still lease it out some years. That's where some of the money for the upkeep comes from. That and an easement we sold to a telecommunications company to site a cell tower way out High Holler."
"I wondered how Henry studied for the bar out here," I said. "Sounds like the farm has better coverage then my house in California."
Pete kept describing the farm. "Bottomland on the right. Mostly they grew corn, but they tried potatoes and wheat and just about anything else they thought they could sell or eat in the winter. Never made much money, I don't think, at least not for the work it took."
Through the trees, I saw the farmhouse on the ridge above us. It sat on a stone point a couple of hundred feet above the pasture. Below it, bald rock gave way to mature fruit trees. Peaches maybe, or cherries? It was hard to tell from the driveway.
The house was bigger than I expected, two stories with a broad covered porch that wrapped around the first floor. The white paint needed a new coat, and the trim and shutters, which were painted black, or maybe dark green, were peeling. I could see a barn and some other buildings beyond the house.
"Huh," said Pete as I drove through an open gate, a lock and chain hanging from the post. "That shouldn't be open. Why don't you go slow on the way up to the house and we'll see what's up, okay?"
At top of the driveway, the road opened into a broad graveled yard between the farmhouse to the east and the barn uphill to the west.
I drove past a tall brick building that sat where the yard flattened out. Roller doors made me think it was a machine shop or maybe an equipment garage. Dirty, cobwebbed windows made me think it hadn't been used in a while.
The barn was two stories with a peaked roof above, painted faded red with white trim. Its corrugated metal roof looked sound enough but like the shop, all the windows were caked with grime. Window panes were cracked and patched with duct tape, some new and some peeling.
I turned left into the yard. An old Subaru was parked under a carport between the farmhouse and barn.
"What the hell?" asked Pete, mostly to himself. "That's Henry's car."
As I pulled up to park, a guy walked out the farmhouse's back door, shirtless and fit in running shorts and flip flops, a coffee mug in his hand and a confused look on his face. His broad hairy chest gave way to a flat stomach with treasure-trail just a few hairs wide.
Pete jumped out before the dust had settled. "What the hell are you doing up here? I thought you'd be getting ready for Chicago."
Henry laughed a little. "Why aren't you down at Myrtle? I needed some time to think. I'm glad you're here, though." He looked at me for a second. "You're Jon, right? Your mom thinks you should call her more."
For a second, we all looked back and forth at each other like characters in a cartoon. We all started laughing.
Pete made the introductions. "Jon, this is your cousin Henry. Henry, Jon."
Henry looked more like Pete than me, although we all could have passed as brothers. Pete was the shortest of the three of us at about 5' 10". His build was stocky and muscular, "stout" my friends on the wresting team might have said. His hair was darker brown that mine, cut short. Dark stubble covered his cheeks, below his twinkling brown eyes.
"You've been talking to my mom?"
"Let's go inside," said Henry. "There's a lot going on."
"The thing is," said Pete, "I was going to take Jon up to see the Necklace. If we don't get going, it'll be dark before we're halfway back down the mountain."
"Aw, hell," said Henry, "don't go riding today. I got some big news." He didn't wait to see if we'd follow him into the house.
We left the bikes on the truck and followed Henry inside, where a mudroom opened into the worn kitchen.
The room was mostly filled by a rectangular table covered in a padded plastic tablecloth, red gingham of course. Chipped painted cabinets, a worn Formica countertop, and an enameled farmhouse sink hugged the walls. A cast iron wood stove stood beside an electric range that had to be twice my age. The fridge was maybe older than my dad.
"You okay if we take the ride another time?" Pete asked me.
"Sure," I shrugged. I wanted to get to know Henry a little more. "I'll see the Necklace someday, I figure."
"Coffee?" Henry asked. Without waiting for an answer, he busied himself refilling the coffee maker.
We made small talk about my trip and Pete's plans for the school year while the water boiled and the coffee brewed. Pete showed me around the first floor.
There was a bedroom off the kitchen's left side, and two sitting rooms, one on either side of the central hallway, where the staircase led to the second floor. A toilet room was tucked in beneath the stairs.
The walls were covered with old photos. I recognized my great grandparents and my Granddad as a boy, but nobody else. There was a family resemblance, sure, but I couldn't have put a name to a face beyond my immediate family. I felt like I should be hearing Ken Burns narrating over the Ashokan Farewell.
"That's Old Hank and Edith when they were young," said Pete over my shoulder.
"My grandad still talks about Edith," I said. "He remembers her Christmas candy and her apple butter."
"Sweetest woman ever," said Henry. "Or so they say."
"Imagine that. A saint after having thirteen kids," said Pete. "I think I`d be mean as tar."
"Seventeen kids," corrected Henry. "Only thirteen of them grew up. And that doesn't count the stillbirths and miscarriages. There's a whole section up in the cemetery. Grim stuff."
I was starting to understand better why earlier generations might not have such fond memories of the farm.
Pete explained that Henry was actually a generation older than us. He was my grandfather's nephew—his mother had been my Grandad's youngest sister. "Technically, I think he's out third cousin," said Pete, "but we usually just call everybody cousin,' or aunt' and `uncle' if they're much older."
They looked at me like I'm crazy when I said that we just use first names in California.
When the coffee was ready, Henry poured into mismatched mugs. Mine was from a fishing charter in Myrtle Beach. Pete grimaced when Henry handed him a sparkly mug from Dollywood.
"Bastard," he muttered with a smirk.
"Let's go out front," said Henry.
We walked down the hallway and through the screened porch, full of worn wicker furniture.
Henry led us to a patch of smooth, bare rock maybe 50 feet square that formed the point on which the house sat. An old aluminum glider was flanked on either side by wooden lawn chairs. The view over the pasture was framed by huge maples growing from below the point. I didn't know the species.
As we sat down, Henry blurted to Pete, "I got the job!"
"The Supreme Court?" asked Pete with awe. "Holy shit, which justice?"
"Both of them!" Henry said.
What followed was a convoluted story I only partially followed. Henry was about to start a job with a judge on the federal court of appeals in Chicago. He'd just found out that two Supreme Court justices had offered him jobs for the next year.
"What are you going to do?" Pete asked.
"I think I'm going top take them both," Pete said warily. "It's a lot, but Justice Yu said I could defer for a year."
"What did the firm say?" Pete asked.
"That's the problem. They won't guarantee my offer for three years. It's probably fine, they want me, just won't make any promises this far out. I should have even more offers after clerking for two justices, but I'd be giving up the guarantee and I'd have to pay back the bar money they advanced."
"That's a lot," said Pete.
"More than ten grand I'd have to repay, and I'd be giving up half a million dollars in bonuses," said Henry. "That would pay off my loans and then some, even after taxes."
My mind reeled. My parents made good money, but what Henry was talking about was like a winning lottery ticket.
"You could probably work for another firm, right?" said Pete. "Even if you clerk for both justices?"
"Yeah, and some of them might even offer a second clerkship bonus," said Henry. "But it's not just the money. It's really hard work. Like, 100 hours a week every week for a year. And everybody says Justice Yu is a pain in the ass to work for, as good as the job is. I could do it, even for two years, but it's a lot."
"You can't say no, right?" Pete asked.
"That's what my professors say," said Henry with a little resignation. From there, he and Pete dove into a discussion about the politics of clerkships, and the etiquette of job offers from judges, and campus politics, and jobs that Henry might not start until I was about to graduate from college.
To be honest, I zoned them out.
I felt at peace sitting on that point of rock, with the farmhouse and barn behind me and the pastures and valley below. Everything was shockingly green. Even after all my travels, my mind was still set in California's dusty, brown summers. Here, everything was lush and green and cool, at least this time of day in the shade.
I could hear the rush of the stream we'd driven over to my left, and what sounded like more flowing water at a distance to the right. The swamps I guessed. Songbirds' calls filled the air, maybe robins but I don't know much about birds. Two hawks wheeled out above the pasture. Insects' chirring came up from below. I wasn't actually meditating, but I was definitely in my own world.
Pete elbowed me and said, "Earth to Jon. Wake up, bud!"
I shook my head and realized I hadn't even tried to follow the conversation.
"Sorry," I smiled a little sheepishly. "I was just enjoying the view. These trees are amazing. Um, what were you saying?"
Pete laughed. "Looks like Jon loves this place like you, Henry," he said.
I exhaled. "There's something about this place that reminds me of home." The thought felt a little underdeveloped and I think Henry picked up on it.
"I wouldn't think California is anything like this," he said, curious. Not quite a challenge but certainly a question.
"Not the land," I explained, "it's a different environment for sure. I don't think there's anywhere in California that looks this green in August. I'm used to hot and dry and this is hot and wet. I can almost feel things growing around me. But it's the same sort of peaceful, like our house is."
"I know what you mean," said Henry. "I did most of my bar exam study out here. I feel like it made all the difference for the exam."
"You think it went well?" I said. My parents still complained about how hard it was to study for the bar.
"I know I aced the subject matter tests and practical essays," he said. "The multiple-choice questions are a little harder to tell, but I feel pretty good about those too."
"C'mon, Henry," Pete laughed. "You know you aced the whole exam. You ace every test."
Henry smiled nervously. "We'll see in the fall," he said. "But if I passed, Jon, your parents get a lot of credit."
"Yeah?" I said, "you mentioned talking with my mom. Did she help you for the exam?"
Henry started to answer but Pete was antsy. "Let's show Jon around," he said over Henry, standing up and stretching. "Y'all can catch up while we walk."
We followed Pete around the side of the house.
Henry said, "your parents gave me some great advice about getting ready for the bar, but I've been talking to your mom since last year. She was a big help getting me the interview with Justice Yu. They go way back, she said."
I was surprised, although I didn't say anything. My mom didn't give favors, especially not to friends or family. But then again, Henry had been offered two other clerkships without her help, so maybe it was just advice and not a favor.
To change the subject, I said, "I should have called them more this summer. I sent a lot of cards but probably not enough."
Henry laughed. "You didn't hear it from me, but they loved the cards and still wanted more calls, too."
"I was supposed to meet my mom in Nebraska a few weeks ago," I explained, "but that got messed up. I'm sorry, though. I was going to come out to her then. I don't want to do it over the phone, you know? I'll talk with them when we meet up at A. Ham., but there will be a lot going on."
"You definitely didn't hear it from me," said Henry with a smile, "but they already know."
I wondered how. I was sure they'd be okay with it, but this wasn't what I had planned. "I wanted them to hear it from me."
"I didn't get all the details," Henry said, "but I think one of your friend's moms got her hand on his phone, or maybe read his journal or something. Your mom said his parents went off the rails a little. But your parents are fine. I think she was mostly worried about your friend."
Shit, I thought. "I wondered why I haven't heard from Dan in a while," I mumbled. "I thought he was just getting ready for BYU."
"Jesus," said Henry.
"I think he'll be okay," I said, but I wondered. I'd planned to talk with Dan from the beach, since I knew he wouldn't be able to talk with me after he left for his mission. I I wondered if that was going to be possible now.
Henry squeezed my shoulder. "It'll be okay," he said, or at least your parents think so." After a moment thinking he went on, "for what it's worth, a lot of the guys I went to school with here, and in college, came out late, or had parents who didn't approve. Pretty rough stuff, some of them. Most of them turned out okay."
"Plus," said Pete, maybe trying to lighten the mood, "Jon here's fucked half the guys he's met between here and California, so he'll be okay too."
Henry snorted a laugh. "What now?"
Pete didn't let up. "Look, Henry," he laughed, "Jon blushes just like you. Goddamned peaches and cream boys, you'll never hide a secret."
I could feel my cheeks burning. What could I do but smile and shrug?
To Henry's look, I said, "I've had some fun on the road this summer."
Henry laughed but Pete wasn't done.
"Some fun?" Pete hooted. "You've had more dick in the last two months than Henry and I have this year!"
"Speak for yourself," said Henry. "D.C. has been awesome this summer, college intern season!"
Pete scowled. "You know nothing, Henry. This kid has had three-ways in every time zone he's drive through! He even has pictures!"
Henry looked at me appraisingly over the top of his glasses. "What sort of pictures," his look seemed to say.
"Of the guys," I said quickly. "Just pictures of the guys, not the three-ways!"
"Too bad," laughed Pete, "the guys are hot!" He continued, telling Henry, "from what Jon said last night, he has the family's `top' gene. Right?" he asked me. "I was pretty stoned."
I nodded. "I definitely prefer topping to getting fucked," I said, trying to speak frankly and not be squeamish. "Bottoming is fun, too, with the right guy, just not my first choice." I didn't have much experience talking about sex, I realized, so I didn't know how much detail was TMI.
The cousins seemed to take my comment in stride.
"And you like sucking dick, right Jon?'" said Pete.
I guess I didn't need to worry so much about TMI. "Who doesn't?" I joked, like it was obvious.
"Small mouth and strong gag reflex here," said Henry, raising his hand. "I don't mind a little foreplay head, but my talents lie . . . elsewhere."
Pete looked like he was trying to figure out how to ask something. "Since we're talking about family genes . . .," he started, ". . . do you share the family curse?"
I didn't think I was cursed. "Should I be worried?"
"If you don't know, you needn't worry," laughed Henry. "A lot of us Hank McGee descendants have `the Irish Curse.'"
"Small dicks," said Pete, raising his eyebrows in case I missed Henry's point.
"Not me," I snorted at Pete's directness.
"Well," said Henry pretending like I was bragging, "hurrah for you!" Pete laughed.
"I am a grower," I added like I was apologizing. Both cousins laughed again.
"Well," demanded Pete like I was holding out, "spill. What are you packing? No wonder you fucked your away across the U.S.A."
I started stammering. This was TMI for sure, wasn't it?
"Such a cute blush," Pete laughed to Henry, whose eyes were twinkling. "More or less than seven inches?"
As I kept stammering, Henry said to me, "you'd better just answer, or he's going to ask you to show us."
I choked with a laugh at that. "About seven and a half inches. I don't know the measurements around, but thick."
"What do you mean, `about seven and a half inches'?" Pete continued, incredulously. "I know my dick's length to the eight of an inch and I'll bet Henry does too. Shit, I'll bet every guy does, even if they don't admit it." Henry didn't deny Pete's statement.
They weren't going to let me off the hook, so I just answered. "The last time I measured I was just under 7.5 inches," I said, "like an eighth of an inch under. But I swear after getting together with Dan and the other guys, I'm bigger." I recognized I was babbling a little. "I'm not saying they made me bigger, just that I got harder, more turned on, with a guy. I'd guess seven and three-quarters.
"Just go with 8," laughed Pete.
"Maybe I'll measure again when I get to school."
"Bullshit," Pete boomed. "Henry, where's a measuring tape? What good's having a farm if you don't keep up with the tools?"
For a second, I though Pete was serious. I think Henry did too, but the look on Pete's face made it clear he was just spinning me up.
Okay, then, my turn for some fun. "What about you, Pete? What's your tale of the tape?"
"Just under 5.5 inches," he smirked, not at all shy "and thinner than most guys. If you read the studies, and I've read all the studies, I'm technically `average,' but technically don't cut it on the apps. Lighting and angles only help so much."
"That sounds about like a guy I met in South Dakota," I said. "Perfect blowjob dick. I could have sucked his cock for hours. Absolutely perfect."
Henry hadn't given me any shit, but Pete brought him into the conversation. "Henry's in the same boat as me, technically average but overshadowed by the porn stars."
"Well . . ." said Henry, disagreeing with Pete . . . "I've got a decent claim to 6 inches and average thickness . . .."
"`Decent claim' my left nut," laughed Pete. "You're bigger than me but not by much. Fucking braggarts, the both of you. Still, it's good to know that somebody thinks I've got a perfect cock for something."
I punched Pete's shoulder, confirming my opinion. "He came pints," I said, seeing if I could shock them.
They just laughed.
We'd walked up a graveled path that ran from the house along the south side of the barn and beyond. There was a fair amount of erosion between the barn and the house. Gravel had been used to fill in some of the washed-out sections, but the footing was still uneven.
"Watch your step," said Henry. "Over the last twenty years, it's started to rain here a lot more during the summer. We should put in better drains, but we haven't got around to it."
Behind the barn, a fenced pasture had been tilled but weeds were still knee-high. From a distance, I recognized fireweed and something that looked similar to poison hemlock, but nothing else stood out as similar to the weeks I knew from California.
Henry saw me looking at the weeds. He must have thought I was judging because he said, "every now and then I try to turn the soil over, if I can get the tractor running."
Pete pointed to a flat, sloping field to our left, below the house and barn, which looked to me like it had been turned over more recently. "That's where the kitchen garden used to be. The soil's still black gold."
"You mean chicken shit and compost," said Henry with a grimace. "I'm old enough to remember having to haul it down from the coop and turn it into the soil."
"So the weather's changed?" I asked, trying to change the subject. "How do you know?"
"Old Hank was a recordkeeper. He kept the mine's books for work, and he kept his journals out here. All sorts of information, weather, temperature, rainfall, crop yields, hunting and fishing notes. You name it, he wrote it down. His daughter Anne took it over and she passed it on to a cousin when she moved away. And so on. The records are all stored in the upstairs study."
I guess you had to do something with your time, living on a farm without running water or electricity, I thought. Still, the records felt important to me somehow, but I wasn't sure why.
"Anyway," said Pete, "about 30 years ago, it started to rain more in the summers. Nobody noticed it right away, but by the time I was little, we didn't worry about droughts anymore."
"Droughts are the last thing I think I'd worry about here," I said. "This is like the tropics compared to California."
Henry laughed. "That's now. One of my Da's jobs when he was a boy was to water from the pump by the house to the garden. In dry years, he had to use the creek in case the well went dry. He said it took him hours. Now, every fourth afternoon or so, the clouds roll up the valley and into the hollers. We usually get a steady soaking that lasts into the night. The old creek is now a river year-round."
We kept talking as Pete and Henry gave me the tour. We walked though the orchard beyond the barn.
The trees were heavy, mostly apples but there were a few pear trees mixed in. The fruit wasn't ripe but it wasn't far off either.
"The deer and bears will get most of these," said Pete without much sadness. "Dad and I will pick a few bushels and make some apple butter for the holidays, but that's about it."
The trees were huge, thick and gnarled. "These are the biggest apple trees I think I've ever seen," I said as we walked through the wet grass between the rows.
"They're probably older than just about anybody in the family by now," said Pete.
"Dickie keeps threatening to try to make cider," said Henry, "but he can't get up here to do the picking and he's too proud to ask anybody for help."
"Stubborn," said Pete. "Stubborn and mean, not proud."
Henry shrugged. "Same thing, ore or less," he said.
Beyond the orchard, Pete pointed to the family cemetery. "One hundred years of McGees and McGraws and Macgowans and Scotts and Stouts and all the rest are buried up there. We do a big family clean-up in the Spring, but nobody's been buried there for about a decade. Dad says Dickie'll probably be the last."
"Speak for yourself," said Henry, teasing but maybe not. "I've got a space in mind for myself."
"Jesus," said Pete with a shiver and a smirk. "Morbid much?"
We looped around behind the barn to a dilapidated building about the size of a two-car garage.
"This was the old salt works," said Pete. "Where we got the floors for our basement in town."
"They made salt here?" I asked. I knew Pete had said they tried to get everything they could from the land but that seemed random to me.
"They were drilling for a well and hit a brine pool instead," said Henry. "They used big pots to evaporate the water and then used the salt to cure meat, pork and fish mostly. They tried to sell it, but there was never much of a market. After a while, salt got to be so cheap that it wasn't worth the work."
"The pots are stored down in the barn," said Pete.
"Along with just about everything else they ever used out here . . .." added Henry.
Before I could say anything, Pete asked, "did your Grandad pick up the hoarder gene?"
It was my turn to laugh. "Him and my dad too. I didn't realize it's genetic."
"Either it's genetic or it's generations of poverty," said Henry, a little scoldy, making clear which he thought was the case. "Nobody ever threw anything away out here if they might use it later on. The garage and shop are packed too, just like the barn."
"I doubt anybody will ever use most of it, now that it's stored away," said Pete.
"Not much use," said Henry. "Farm stuff, family boxes, wedding dresses, dish sets, you name it. Some of the cousins just packed up entire houses and moved all the boxes out here when their parents died or went into retirement homes. There's even a gazebo the uncles salvaged when they tore down one of the old hotels. It's packed away in the barn somewhere. It's a hoarder's dream in there."
"Rats nests and boxes of old newspapers and moldy clothes," grumbled Pete.
We'd circled back to the driveway and were standing on the road between the barn and the shop. The road continued uphill between the buildings but the gravel stopped about 100 yards beyond the barn. Weeds and tall grass leaned in over the wheel ruts.
"The road splits up there, just beyond the bend. It's near the property line," said Pete. "Right to go up High Holler and left to go into Low Holler. High Holler goes up and up, about 15 miles until you hit bare rock at the top of the mountains. The Necklace is up there."
"The Low Holler track rises and falls, but it runs along the swamp and follows the holler way back into the mountains."
"How much does the family own?" I asked.
"About 40 acres total. From the road down below, the property line goes up about 250 yards beyond the orchard. If you look carefully, you can see the where the farm ends and the wild land begins."
"State land?" I asked. There were so many fights over land management around my house growing up, I couldn't help wondering.
"Some state, some federal, some private, I guess," said Henry. "Not that it matters. Nobody's ever tried to do anything with the land above us, we've never had to worry."
The feeling of calm I'd first experienced at the farmhouse was still with me.
"It's nice here," I said. "I'll bet fall is great." Fall is my favorite time of year.
Henry laughed. "Wait around a few weeks and you'll find out."
At the same time, Pete said, "blink and you'll miss it."
It was so hot, I didn't follow their points.
Pete jumped in. "Fall and then winter come on hard and fast up here. By October the leaves will be down and there may be snow on the ground. Some years we can't even have Thanksgiving up here. It's not so bad in town, just a funny quirk of Twins Hollers. Spring comes hard and fast too, but late."
As we walked back to the farmhouse, we talked about college and what I should expect.
"You know," said Henry to me, "your mom told me something when I was getting ready for the bar exam that I wish I'd known as an undergrad. It really helped."
My parents hadn't given me any advice for school. It wasn't their way. Book suggestions and essay topics, sure, but they never tried to tell me how to do something unless I asked, and even then, their advice was brief and essentially useless. "You should figure out your own way," they'd tell me.
"She said to treat bar study like a job. `Get up, go to class, study until dinnertime, take a break. Get a lot of exercise, but don't overdo anything.' She said that's what worked for both her and your dad."
"`Everything in moderation'," I said, repeating one of her favorite sayings.
Henry laughed. "That's about right," he said. "It worked great for me and the bar. I got up, went for a run or to step class, attended the lectures, took a lunch break, and then studied until dinner. Sometimes I'd go back to the gym after class and I'd occasionally study at night if I felt like I needed to dig into something, but your mom's system really worked for me. I wonder if that might not work for you at A. Ham."
"I haven't really been too focused on school," I admitted. After the call with my suitemates, though, I had been starting to feel unfocused, under-prepared. "I guess I should think about some plans when I get to the beach, before orientation."
"It's supposed to be intense up there," said Henry, a little concerned. "Maybe setting work hours would help you settle in, find a routine."
It seemed a little inflexible to me. "I like the idea," I said, "but I wonder how well it would work with a bunch of classes and labs. Do you think you would have been able to do it if you had more than one set of lectures?"
"I don't know," said Henry slowly, thinking. "It probably would have been harder, but I still wish I had tried to follow a set schedule, just to keep up with everything. I wasted so many afternoons and then had to cram late at night to finish everything."
"Wouldn't work for me," Pete said with a shrug. "I couldn't start getting up early or writing papers in the afternoons. I'm so used to all-nighters when a paper's due, I don't think I could organize my thoughts without a tight deadline."
Henry laughed. "Procrastinator. I'm sure Jon doesn't share your bad habits."
"Some of it would be easy for me," I said. "This summer, I've been waking up with the sun most of the time. I've always liked working out in the mornings, yoga or a lot of time, I'd run to school and change in the locker room before class. There's a gym in the First-Year dorms if the weather's bad." I'd never spent much time working out in gyms, but I could figure something out, I was sure.
"It's a start," said Henry. "Plus, you won't keep that body without hard work."
"Jeez," I said laughing, "there's another thing I guess I'll have to worry about. I'm in better shape now that I've ever been."
"It won't be easy to keep that level of fitness as a freshman," said Pete.
"You did okay," said Henry. "It's just one more thing Jon will want to be intentional about."
"Yeah, fair," said Pete, "I didn't mean to stress you out. One of my T.A.'s last year did her undergrad at A. Ham. She said the first-year dorms are set up to make things easy for you." I liked hearing that. I knew the school tried to balance supporting new students and letting us figure stuff out on their own.
We'd been talking for so long that the shadows were getting long by the time we got back to the house.
As we walked, Henry asked what I planned to study. He perked up when I said part of my focus would be American History.
"I'm thinking out loud here," he said slowly, forming a thought. "My goal, I mean after the clerkships and firms and whatever, is to teach at a law school. I know you're going to have a lot on your plate, but I wonder if you might want to work with me on some projects over the next couple of years."
I didn't have any idea what Henry was suggesting and said as much.
"I didn't have the patience, or the budget, to get a J.D./Ph.D., but a lot of the subjects I'm most interested in have a historical component. Constitutional powers, the amendments and how they're interpreted, administrative law, federal versus state powers, they all require at least some historical analysis. I wonder if you might want to collaborate on some research projects, in all your spare time, of course."
"During your clerkships?" I asked.
"My professors think it will help me when I go onto the job market if I have some historical work published in addition to the other things I'm working on."
"I don't think I'll have much time for outside projects," I said. It wasn't a no, but it was pretty close.
"I'm not thinking about outside projects, really. But if you have the chance to choose the subject for a research or seminar paper, we could work together. I'd be able to suggest topics and help with edits if your honor code allows it. I'd be able to expand your research for my own work. You'd get publication credit—co-author, I mean, not just a footnote thanking you—and I'd get a jump-start on some research."
This was sounding interesting to me, if a little hard to imagine beyond the abstract.
Henry went on: "Pete and I tried something similar this year. It worked well enough, but it was a policy paper. His interests are so different from mine that we just got lucky to find some overlap. All I'm saying is, we should stay in touch about your classes and papers and that sort of thing."
"Sounds good to me," I said. "Reading the course catalog, there are entire fields of history I didn't know people studied, and things I thought of as political science that A. Ham. teaches as history. The more help I have to think through this stuff the better, I think."
"You can always ask me for help, too," said Pete. "Henry`s going to be busy. I'm a Politics major, so there could be some crossover with what you're studying. My thesis has a historical piece, even though it's looking at the last election."
Henry agreed. "I majored in Philosophy, but my focus was political philosophy and statecraft. Again, not pure history but I couldn't understand the reading without knowing at least some of the historical context."
We set up a group chat when we got back to the farmhouse.
"Keep us posted," said Pete. "Hopefully the isn't much more roommate drama."
"Even if I'm slow to respond," said Henry, "I'll be there for you too."
We continued to chat over dinner, but most of it was Pete and Henry talking about the year to come. Pete knew his course list and was talking about the outline for his senior thesis. Henry was focused on starting the new job, but also looking forward to finishing an article he wanted to shop around before the law journal publication deadline.
As I listened, I felt something shift inside. Henry and even Pete were far beyond me as students, but I found their academic excitement contagious.
They ended up in an extended good-natured argument about what one of the Federalist Papers said about a legal fight developing in the Supreme Court. I couldn't follow the substance, but it was interesting and genuinely exciting to watch them banter. They were so confident, so assured, even when they were just playing devil's advocate.
Pete took a more practical approach while Henry grounded his arguments in theory. Every now and then they'd toss a question to me, but it was usually so deep in texts I hadn't read I'd just say "pass" and let the conversion flow.
"That's a good skill," said Henry after I answered one of his questions with a good-natured shrug. "A lot of guys—and I mean guys' literally—have a hard time keeping quiet, especially when they're asked for an opinion. I'd be a rich man if I got a quarter every time some dude in seminar or section said, I haven't finished the reading, but . . .' and then went off."
"I have a question," laughed Pete. "Well, not so much a question as a comment . . .."
"My law school roommate and I had a saying," said Henry. "The better part of valor is keeping your fucking trap shut if you haven't done the reading."
"Rolls right off the tongue, that," laughed Pete.
I laughed too. "My parents were both pretty tough questioners around the dinner table," I said. "It's been hammered into me not to offer an opinion I can't back up."
"But your mom said no law school for you, right?" said Henry. "I'd think you'd be a natural trained by the fearsome Justice McGee."
"And her fearsome prosecutor husband," I added, since Dad was just as rigorous as my mom. "But we'll see. I doubt I'll go to law school, but I haven't written it off. I just don't think I want to be a lawyer."
Pete nodded. "I'm not sure I want to practice either, but there are all sorts of jobs where a law degree helps. Journalist, State Department, hedge funds, think tanks and foundations. The sort of consulting I am most interested in requires law degrees."
We kept talking late into the night. I felt more excited—more eager—to get to school than I had all summer. The call with my suitemates had got me thinking about the social side of A. Ham., but the conversation with Pete and Henry got me thinking about being a student.
I was still looking forward to the beach, but for the firs time, I was also excited to be a student at A. Ham.
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
A few years ago, I drafted another chapter set in Columbus with a guy named Quinton. It took place the night before Jon finally fixed his truck and left the mall parking lot. I ditched it because I'm anxious to get Jon to A. Ham. It was originally another hook-up, but that felt a little repetitive, so I changed it to Jon trying (and failing) to talk the guy into sex. The chapter didn't add much so I decided to discard it. Maybe I'll use it in a future flashback. Let me know what you think.
From here, Jon heads to the beach and then I'll introduce his suitemates a little more before the start of school. As always, please let me know what you think about the story and this chapter:
cottagecore.stories@gmail.com
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