Jack Lantern Light
Where can we wander
By jack-lantern light,
Treading dead leaves
In the dim smoky night?
Down to the cornfields
Under the moon
Rustling and empty
Except for raccoons;
Down the bare pathway
Winding through trees
Where dark woods are leaning
In a dry lonesome breeze;
Down to the graveyard
Covered with stones
Trying to hold down
Restless old bones.
Oh, what is that Thing
Coming near through the night?
Oh, where have we wandered
By jack-lantern light?
Probably
my interest in some accoutrements stem from the toys we had when I was a tiny
little boy. Consider, for instance, this squeaky toy of a lion that we called “Omi”
despite the beard, simply because he had glasses, a cane, and what we referred
to as a “purse”. From that, no doubt, sprang my desire for a Gladstone or
Carpet Bag to haul my stuff around in, with a Briefcase being a distant third. Merlin
in The Sword in the Stone had his ‘bag of holding’, and Mary Poppins her
carpet bag, as did Phileas Fogg (his was stuffed with 20,000 pounds and, in the
cartoon, all sorts of eccentric items).
For a brief time in grade school, I had a grey
satchel of cheap plastic that was the closest I ever came. Only a few years ago
I bought a vintage case (not the one shown here) that resides in the top of my
closet, filled with odds and ends, but ever ready in case I go on another trip.
Another toy we had was called Professor Worm, and he had an Umbrella. I desperately wanted an umbrella, a real Bumbershoot (black or dark green in color), sturdy enough to be a cane, wide enough to cover nearly two people, and able (in fancy) to become a parachute or even an emergency boat. An elaborate handle would be nice, like a carved squirrel with the tail as the hook. Our own umbrellas were inadequate, rickety, and later, folding. Many characters had them: strangely enough, Mary Poppins pops up again. I’d never seen the movie, but the image was ubiquitous.
Then
there’s Sam the Snowman, who has a pocket watch, a derby, AND an umbrella, thus
ticking a multitude of boxes. When it comes to umbrellas, I still haven’t found
what I’m looking for, not even a good approximation.
Not quite so necessary but still intriguing was the Pipe. A good number of fictional characters were still smoking when I was a child, from Popeye to Frosty the Snowman to Sherlock Holmes to (once again) Merlin. Again, there was a sort of intellectual dimension to it, as it was seen to aid contemplation. Later on, I read The Hobbit, and that solidified my fondness for pipes – as an idea. I would never (and have never) smoked anything. Not because of medical reasons, per se, but for aesthetic reasons. Cigarettes were a ubiquitous stinky mess everywhere in my childhood, and cigars (at least the kind smoked in our local bowling alley) were even fouler. Pipes seemed more fragrant and their smoke less penetrating. Pop kept a couple of pipes in the pencil drawer (I don’t remember him ever smoking one, but we played with them) but it was Uncle Doc who was the partaker in the wider family. Uncle Arno and Aunt Hedwig kept a fancy one in their cabinet; it was carved like a stag with its antlers holding the bowl and had a steel-mesh stem. Years later my friend Alan Peschke ( http://briarfiles.blogspot.com/) gave me a churchwarden pipe. The chances of my smoking it are practically nil. But I love just having it.
When thunder blasts the firmament
And foul clouds pall the stars
And fitful moon peers through the trees
As if through prison bars,
Where roads are lone
And ways are dark
There Bill's bare bones
Go walking stark.
Springing from an abandoned lane
Through a dense wood's blasted boles
Under a rusty ruinous bridge
Green pestilent water rolls.
Under that span
Her coffin sank
And so Marie
Goes walking dank.
And sometimes, at the worst of times
When ill stars rule the skies
And awful omens stalk abroad
And the night air's full of cries,
Bill and Marie
At times will meet
To dance till dawn
On bony feet.
So
eager was I to own any kind of top hat that in Third Grade I raced ahead of all
activities in the school fair to the ‘general store’ sale to purchase a red
glass top hat (used originally as a table-setting feature). I had no use for it,
of course, except as a nest for a toy owl (I’m obsessed with owls, as well). A Bowler
was the next in the headgear to be desired (again, Laurel and Hardy and such),
with the colonial tricorn (influenced by Ben and Me) a distant third. A
cowboy hat, being all too common in everyday Texan attire, was nowhere in the
running.
Another
one of my backward-looking obsessions was the Muffler, or Scarf (though I
tended to avoid the term; scarves were for ladies). Not so much for the warmth
they provided, I suppose, as for their panache. Huge examples were worn by
coachmen and other Dickensian characters like Mr. Pickwick or Bob Cratchit
and, once again, snowmen. As a WWI flying Ace, Snoopy sported one as an
appointment. Unfortunately, at the time these articles were mostly relegated to
women; I guess men were supposed to be too hardy for such folderol. The muffler
made something of a comeback later, first with Dr. Who and then in a big way with
the Harry Potter phenomenon; the ubiquity of the Hogwarts House colors finally
allowed me to fulfill this dream.
I
was singularly unlucky with my eyewear as a boy. The one pair I ever had I got
in Second Grade, and they were made with the lowest grade thick black plastic
rectangular frames imaginable. If they had been round, though equally nerdy, I
do not think I have minded them so much; there was at least precedent for them
(and I was so deeply old-fashioned as a child as to be almost non-conformist to
the age). I lost that pair at a Circuit Assembly in San Antonio the same year,
and my parents never thought it worthwhile to replace them. This led to several
difficulties with my learning over time. I did not get another pair until the
early Eighties, which I paid for myself.
What I really coveted was a pair of Pince-Nez eyeglasses. They seemed the almost
stereotypical choice of style for doctors, professors, lawyers, politicians,
preachers, and other learned types who didn’t have to work with their hands.
Not at the time, you understand, but in all the old movies and TV shows we
watched. Even Teddy Roosevelt (not then treated with so much obloquy as he is today) had pince-nez pinched onto his nose. The closest we ever got were
the plastic replicas that were still included in every toy doctor’s kit.
Nowadays, of course, thanks to the Steampunk movement and various Fantasy franchises, these style choices are not considered quite so outré as once they were, although they are once more fading away. When I was little, they were confined to ‘de-evolved’ versions in female fashion or worn by hippies (like granny-glasses) in parody of traditional values. But what I desperately wanted was the true old solidity of the genuine articles, and perhaps some of the dignity and character that they seemed to indicate to me.
Kren
hesitated a moment, then sat down on the creaking chair opposite the man. He
put his paws on his knees, bowed his head, and took a deep breath. He looked up
again, hairy brows furrowed.
“First
of all, tell me about Bharek and how he was defeated; about how the Black King who
had reigned a thousand years and his Ogre Horde were finally overcome, when all
the best efforts of the combined Races had failed before.” He cocked an
eyebrow. “I imagine it must be quite a tale.”
Koppa
smiled, but Kren noticed a hint of pain lurking in the corners of the young man’s
eyes.
“It
is indeed quite a tale, and if I were to tell you all about it, we would
be here until morning and still not be done with the telling. And then, of
course, I’d have to leave Far Reach and you’d never hear the end of it. It’s
been made into a saga, though. Perhaps some day you’ll hear it in full.”
Koppa
shifted in his chair.
“However,
I can tell you the short version. About six years ago – it was in the Fall,
just as it is today – when Bharek’s armies came marching out of the North
again, after staying mostly penned up behind the Norkult Mountains for two
hundred years. There had been raids and incursions, of course, and the waves of
Bharek’s Breath every now and again, but this time it seemed the Horde was
intent on our final destruction and came in hosts innumerable, so that Morg
City itself was finally besieged. King Thron was old and the realm ill-prepared
and it seemed certain that the South would at last be overwhelmed.”
Koppa
paused, clearing his throat.
“You
know, I think I will take that water, please.”
Kren
snorted incredulously, taken aback.
“Oh,
no, Mr. Herald!” He wagged his head sharply. “You’ve started your tale, now you
have to finish it! Then you’ll get your water!” He sat back glowering. “With
things looking so bad, how was the Dark Lord defeated?”
When I think about my childhood, I usually come to a point when I remember my old obsessions with certain kinds of objects. Obsessions that I still have, to a certain extent. A lot of them came from old cartoons, old movies, or even contemporary shows of the time that were looking backward. While much of the culture was obsessed with ‘mid-century modern’ or ‘groovy’ or even ‘utilitarian’, I was admiring the products of a slower, more aesthetic age.
Nothing exemplified that like the candle-stick telephone. The almost Art Deco design allowed the user to hold the ear-pierce and the receiver to their personally optimum distance. This type of phone was popular in old black-and-white comedy shorts like shorts like Laurel and Hardy. It might have been common and work-a-day in the 1930’s, but it seemed elegant and unusual to me.
Talking
of Art Deco design, the cathedral radio also appealed to me, mostly because of
Captain Kangaroo. On the show, Radio was actually a character that could talk
back to the Captain. While most of the radios we dealt with at the time were
little plastic boxes, the cathedral radio was a full-fledged piece of
furniture. Despite its undoubted technical drawbacks, I coveted one for its graceful
beauty.
And
speaking of Captain Kangaroo, it was also probably the origin of my fascination
with grandfather clocks, through the character of Grandfather Clock. The size,
the ornateness, the impressive chime of these timepieces in the movies marked
the passing hours in fancy mansions and haunted houses alike. For a long while
I had to be content with a Green Stamp electrical version that we kept on the
TV set.
On a
more personal level, I also really wanted a pocket watch. Although wristwatches
were definitely handier and more available, a pocket watch had more gravitas
and could be taken out and opened with a flourish. Pocket watches were
ubiquitous in movies: train conductors, doctors, and other people of authority
had them. I wrote a whole post about pocket watches on my other blog, https://brer-powerofbabel.blogspot.com/2010/08/fantastic-pocket-watch.html.
Pocket watches made something of a comeback with the Steampunk movement.
SCENE 1:
[THE TURK'S HEAD INN, a clean commodius well-appointed tavern, but by no
means luxurious. Candlelight, fireplace, bottles, glasses, punchbowl; tables,
chairs, booths. It is ca. 1790 in LONDON, about 10:00PM on a September day. A
meeting of THE CLUB is in full swing, about 20 men of various ages and
conditions are sitting and standing in groups, talking and drinking.
[PAN across the room. As we pass the broad back of a sitting man we hear
his voice raised as he speaks to a waiting POT-BOY. We do not see his face.]
JOHNSON: Tea, please. Another pot of
tea.
[Continue PAN, then focus in at a group of three. These are JOSHUA
REYNOLDS, a snuffy old painter, kind, secure; DAVID GARRICK, a successful
actor/manager, vain but approachable; and EDWARD GIBBON, a historian, fat,
fussy, superior. We hear GIBBON more clearly as we come in closer.]
GIBBON: I only wonder if he has the
mental capacities required for membership. He seems unstable, if you ask me.
And frivolous.
REYNOLDS: Well, he's a good young
fellow. Very amusing. And he did write a book.
GARRICK: Yes. What was it about
again? Crimea? Sicily?
GIBBON: Corsica. Another shallow
travels book, neither history, geography, or politics. Every young idiot who
goes abroad must write a book about it nowadays.
GARRICK: That's right. Wants to be
called 'Corsica' Boswell. He's turned up several places dressed in the national
costume.
REYNOLDS: He's young and
enthusiastic. He amuses Sam, and that's the important thing. We founded this
club, Mr. Gibbons, to help Mr. Johnson, not to rival the French Academy. Or to
assist social climbers.
[Gibbon is stung. He was blackballed the first time he applied.]
GIBBON: That's as may be. But
unless he produces better work, the only claim James Boswell will have in history
will be that he was known in the Club. [His eyes are suddenly fixed across the
room at a burst of laughter. He lifts his glass primly.] As its jester. [He
drinks.]
[PAN across to the fireplace, where JAMES BOSWELL, the young son of a lord,
early twenties, is just finishing a bawdy tale to an appreciative audience, in
a broad Scots accent. When he speaks again, however, it is in carefully studied
English.]
BOSWELL: "...I maun nae for
all yair kin beat ye, but I may beat my ain sheep-skin." And he did, too!
[He joins in the laughter, pleased with himself and the attention. He picks
up his glass, sips. An idea strikes.]
Thank you. Thank you all. Indeed, I would like to address the whole Club.
[Picks up a spoon and strikes his glass.]
My friends. My friends, and members of the Club!
[Conversations die down to murmurs as attentions are turned.]
My friends, first I would like to thank you all for my election to this
prestigious 'band of brothers,' if I may quote the Swan of Avon. It is a great
honor, great beyond my years and talents. Indeed, I would not be exaggerating
if I said it is an honor I covet above all others that kings or courts can
bestow. I only hope that the company of such wise friends but improve me as the
years pass so that I may come to deserve what is so generously given me now...
GIBBON: [Sotto] Pigswill. No one
thinks higher of Jamie Boswell than Jamie Boswell.
BOSWELL: And now, most of all, I
want to thank my greatest friend and benefactor in the anxious striving and
achievement of my life, the best and wisest man I know, [Raises his glass] Mr.
Samuel Johnson!
[Calls of 'Hear, hear!' and murmurs of approval.]
BOSWELL: And furthermore, to wish
him on this most happy day, the most heartfelt congratulations on his birthday,
and many more to come!
[There is silence at this, except for a few groans and gasps. A quick PAN
to SAMUEL JOHNSON, who is rising as if at bay from his chair to face BOSWELL.
JOHNSON is a man of some bulk but with a 'gigantick' frame to hold it, and
though in his late fifties is not a man to be trifled with. He pauses a moment,
his face expressionless, then picks his hat off the table.]
JOHNSON: Gentlemen, I bid you good
night.
[Claps his hat on his head, takes his stick, and marches out.]
[General hubbub of disapproval as people turn back to talk and drink.
BOSWELL, crestfallen, joins REYNOLD's group. REYNOLDS looks distressed, GARRICK
disapproving, GIBBON smug.]
BOSWELL: Mr. Reynolds, what have I
done? Why was he so angry?
GARRICK: He wasn't angry, my lord.
[Relents somewhat.] I don't suppose it's your fault. Someone should have warned
you.
BOSWELL: Warned me? Of what?
REYNOLDS: Sam doesn't like any
mention of his birthday, lad. Or of time passing, or of old age coming, or
indeed, of our future state.
BOSWELL: Future state?
GARRICK: Heaven or Hell, sir.
GIBBON: Or the grave.
REYNOLDS: Once I said at a gathering
that some of us might not be there next year and he belabored me for ten
minutes by the clock for being a skeleton at the feast.
BOSWELL: But why? Can it be that a
reknowned philosopher and a religious man, one who has written about the vanity
of human wishes, can he be...well, vain about his age?
REYNOLDS: Lad, no one I know has
less care for his appearance, or his body, than Sam Johnson. No, it isn't
vanity, but a great melancholy that descends on him at such times. We made the
Club, in fact, to get him out of his solitude and into society.
BOSWELL: But why is he so
melancholy?
GARRICK: He has always been so,
since I first knew him, when I was a child and he my teacher. I used to pull
such saucy tricks to make him smile again!
REYNOLDS: Who knows why? Perhaps he couldn't tell you
himself. Something in his past...
BOSWELL: [Truly puzzled.] How could
you be Samuel Johnson and not be happy?
SCENE 2:
[The LONDON STREETS. JOHNSON moves like an icebreaker through the crowd of
rich and poor, virtuous and vicious. He is taller and broader than most. He
walks from jostling to less crowded streets, finally ending in the lonely,
foggy confines of JOHNSON'S COURT. He pauses to take a deep breath in the
quiet, then opens the door to NO. 7.]
SCENE 3:
[Inside is pandemonium. Down a long dark passage to the kitchen comes the
noise of a huge quarrel. PAN down the hall as if in JOHNSON'S perspective till
we come to the kitchen, where we turn the corner and are in the thick of it.]
[The kitchen, though warm and small, is in disarray and crammed with
people. Chief among these are FRANK BARBER, a black man about 30; MISS
WILLIAMS, a blind spinster; MR. LEVET, a stiff elderly practitioner of physic;
MRS. DESMOULINS, the ineffective housekeeper; her 30ish DAUGHTER; two ELDERLY
SERVANTS; and POLL CARMICHAEL, a 'reclaimed' creature of the streets. As
counterpoint to the human quarrel, HODGE, a huge gray cat, is wawling with a
will.]
POLL: [Stamping her foot.] Why? Why
can't I go out?
FRANK: There is only one type of
lady out at this time of night...
POLL: I want to see my friends!
WILLIAMS: Friends, indeed.
Customers, more like. If my old father, the Reverend, were alive to see me
share a roof with such a...
DESMOULINS: [At the cat. Or is it?]
Filthy creature here in my kitchen!
LEVET: [Disapprovingly.] It's not
been the same since you took over, Mrs. Desmoulins.
DESMOULINS: Hark at you, you old
drunk!
WILLIAMS: I can smell it on 'im
from here.
LEVET: A drink is all many of my
patients can offer for their doctoring. It would be an insult to refuse.
POLL: Can I go?
FRANK: No, you will stay quiet.
Tomorrow morning you can go.
POLL: They'll all be asleep!
FRANK: [Who has been repulsing
HODGE's demands throughout this exchange.] Will someone throw this beast out?!
[He gives a sweeping kick that propels HODGE to the hall door. He lands at the
feet of JOHNSON.]
[JOHNSON reaches slowly down and picks HODGE up. He straightens and sternly
surveys the inmates of his house.]
JOHNSON: Good evening. Dr. Levet.
Ladies.
[There are muttered and chastened greetings. JOHNSON soothes HODGE, walks
over to the table and pours cream into a saucer. He takes it and turns to the
door to the back stairs.]
JOHNSON: Frank, I'm going to the
attic. Would you bring me some tea in a few minutes.
FRANK: Yes sir.
JOHNSON: [Turns in the doorway.]
And Frank. Poll may go out. To see her...friends.
FRANK: Yes sir.
[JOHNSON lets HODGE down, takes a candle, and starts up the stairs with the
cream. The cat follows. FRANK glances over at POLL who has a complicated
expression of sorrow, shame, and defiance. She runs out the door. MISS WILLIAMS
reaches out blindly for her tea and sips it with a shake of her head.]
SCENE 4:
[The attic room. We face the door as it opens to frame JOHNSON. HODGE runs
in by his feet. He stands and surveys the room. We reverse angle to see the
room. It is a working library, with three tables and one desk covered with
papers and calf-bound books. There are books in shelves, lining the room. Pens,
slips of paper, inkwells, pencils, candles are everywhere. Dust and cobwebs in
corners and edges.]
[JOHNSON walks into view to the main desk, where he sits, absently sets the
milk down, and lights two more candles. He puts the first candle high on the
desk. He looks at the candles a moment, then reaches to the bottom drawer and
pulls out a journal. He sets it on the desk, opens it, and flips by a few
pages. He stops and reads.]
JOHNSON: [VO] One of my earliest
recollections is of a journey on which my mother carried me to London to be
touched by Queen Anne, it being the belief at the time that such could cure the
scrofula from which I suffered.
[Cut to MEMORY TABLEAU of SARAH JOHNSON and YOUNG JOHNSON at 3 years old,
filmed very close and obscure. An arm dressed in a sweeping black sleeve
reaches toward them, the hand is covered with rings.]
JOHNSON: [VO] I have a confused,
yet somehow solemn, remembrance of a lady in diamonds and a long dark hood.
[The YOUNG JOHNSON looks up in awe as the lady's hand approaches his head.
We see the scrofular scar tissue on his face.]
[Return to attic. Stoic face of JOHNSON as he reads.]
JOHNSON: [VO] It did me no good. We
returned to Lichfield and my father's bookshop with a royal medallion as a
souvenir of the experience, but nothing more.
[JOHNSON takes up pen and begins to write. As he does we FADE into the
past.]
JOHNSON: [VO] My parents were both
well past the age when most people have children, and I was born more dead than
alive.
[SCENE of the JOHNSON HOUSE. SARAH brings BABY JOHNSON through the streets
to the front door. His father MICHAEL, a large melancholy man, meets them, at
first with a glimmer of hope, then after a look in the blanket, with gloomy
acceptance.]
JOHNSON: [VO] My mother, doubting
her ability to nurse me, sent me out to a blacksmith's daughter for that
purpose. Unknown to all she was tubercular, and I drew in disease where it was
intended I gain health. I returned to my parents a poor diseased baby almost
blind.
[Inside the JOHNSON HOUSE, the dining room, 13 years later. MICHAEL is
dithering with several large account books, as he, Sarah, and YOUNG JOHNSON
eat. Slips of paper, scribbled, torn, fall from the books as he flips dazedly
though them.]
MICHAEL: I just can't keep them
balanced, my dear. Juggling the book shop with the tannery. Keeping the orders
straight. I just hope Cornelius can help us get right. Once set correctly I
believe we can keep on, but it's...overwhelmed me.
SARAH: He's done wonders with the
estate that Uncle Neely's left, they say. And he has influence...the Earl of
Chesterfield, just new made, was his friend at college.
MICHAEL: Oh, Sarah, you could have
done much better than me. Better than this poverty...
SARAH: What nonsense. [Fondly.]
Now, you get to work, and when my nephew comes I'll give him the books and see
what he makes of them. [To YOUNG JOHNSON.] And you get to school.
JOHNSON: [Bolts his food.] Yes,
ma'am.
