13 December 20XX +1
My Dear Lucilius:
The Visitor In The Snow has caused, perhaps unsurprisingly, a flurry of activity in our snow packed town (no puns intended, but gladly accepted). Beyond just this digging out and checking on people, the biggest point of conversation as I walked from house to house – even with our Erstwhile Neighbors – was “Who was he? Where did he come from?”
To the first I have an answer. To the second, I still only have mysteries.
The second point first: I cannot tell you anything about where he came from, at least around here. Young Xerxes sent people out on sweeps around the various parts of Birch, out even to the former school. There was nothing: no tracks, no other bodies (of people, anyway), no signs. Two young men actually made it all the way to the ranch at the base of the tall him that dominates our southern landscape; they, also, had no idea and had not seen anyone.
Only the tracks coming out of the West remained.
Young Xerxes and I walked them as far as we could, until it became apparent that blowing snow had erased them. If there was a point where he came onto the road, that was not revealed as well. At some point the indentations continued to grow shallower and shallower until they simply disappeared and it was nothing but us and gentle plains of snow that whirled as snow devils created themselves in sparkling circles and then died.
To the first question, his name was J.
I have his ID in front of me as I write. J. Aged 30, judging from the birth date on his driver’s license, which is from a state (A former state? Are there any states at all anymore?) several states away from here. His height (5’ 10”) and his physical appearance (Hair: Brown; Eyes: Blue) look back at me from the picture.
His face is clean shaven and far heavier looking that than the frozen face that greeted us yesterday. He has that awkward smile that so many of us have for such official pictures: “Smile”, they say. We most often look either grim or goofy.
The other contents of the pocket on the back of his cell phone was generally unremarkable: a credit card and bank card to financial institutions I am sure no longer exist, a roadside assistance card long expired, a series of old fortunes from fortune cookies: “Changes are in your near future” read one that seemed rather new.
And in one pocket, a laminated picture.
It is clearly him. It is Summer. He looks happy, sitting on a boat on blue waters. The rod in his hands make it look like an ocean fishing expedition. To his right is a woman looking at the camera as well. She is clearly dressed not to go fishing, but to be there and enjoy the sea. They each have a bottle of beer in their hands. The sun is shining brightly, casting bold shadows onto the deck.
Who was he, Lucilius, this J? Yes, I know his name and I can gather a bit from where he had financial transactions, but other that the only clue I have is this picture.
Did he always like fishing? Was this a one time trip? Was the cashmere scarf that he had from this woman? Was she his girlfriend, his wife, his sister? A friend? What did he think of all that has happened in the last year? Where was he? What did he do?
And why did it all come to an end against the side of building in a snow storm?
His story is not unique, now or ever. For most of history most of us have gone to the grave known perhaps by a few around us but forgotten within a few years or a generation. It was only in the modern world, with pictures and videos and books and electronic memory that the names of millions could be remembered.
Could be. Were. Now, we slip by and if we are lucky, we are briefly remembered.
Sic transit gloria mundi.
Your Obedient Servant, Seneca
Lucky enough to live in a place where if you pass there'll be a board hammered into the ground as a headstone, carved with your name and date of death eh TB?
ReplyDeleteNylon12 - The more I think about Seneca's letter, the deeper it becomes.
DeleteCurrently we live in a world where so much of what we do is ephemeral in that it is online or in mediums that will barely survive 30 years, let alone a thousand (Except plastics and nuclear waste, of course. They will be with us forever). And yet how people pour their lives into such things: hours and hours spent online or on things that will not outlast the day, let alone their lives.
It is like a computer game: when it is done, it is finished. There is nothing to indicate that you one anything. The hours and hours you sank into the game are gone. What does one have to show for it? The statement "I finished"?
Even in our world now, it is hard to be remembered beyond the lifetime of our youngest relative. How much more so in a world with no mass memory such as the InterWeb or songs and sagas or books? Even a headstone, to your point, would be something, but in a world where almost no-one cuts stone anymore, even a wooden marker will not last long - and likely mean nothing to every one who passes by.
Nothing of substance to add but it did remind me of a verse from one of my favorite John Prine songs "Lake Marie". The verse is as follows:
ReplyDeleteMany years later, I found myself talking to this girl
Who was standing there with her back turned to Lake Marie
The wind was blowing especially through her hair
There was four Italian sausages cooking on the outdoor grill
And they was s-s-sizzlin'
Many years later we found ourselves in Canada
Trying to save our marriage and perhaps catch a few fish
Whatever came first
That night, she fell asleep in my arms
Humming the tune to 'Louie Louie'
Aah baby, we gotta go now
Wow Ed - That is a powerful set of lyrics and I feel the emotion behind them. Thanks for sharing.
DeleteLike Ed, I had a snippet of song lodged in my mind while reading. However, I instead drifted to a few stanzas of The Green Fields of France:
ReplyDeleteDid you leave a wife, or a sweetheart behind?
In some faithful heart is your memory entwined?
Although you died back in 1916,
In that faithful heart are you forever nineteen?
Or are you a stranger with nary a name,
Enclosed there forever behind a glass pane?
In an old photograph torn and battered and stained,
And faded to yellow in a brown leather frame?
I only know of a specific rendition done by a nautical-themed group who used to perform at a local Renaissance Faire when I was younger, The Corsairs. I've seen some folk think poorly of taking a song about The Great War and turning its verse into a sea shanty, but primacy makes it the only one I can clearly recall without prompting.
P_P - Thank you for sharing as well (In my mind, nothing wrong with making it a sea shanty; in a way, what a great way to sing such lines).
Delete"In that faithful heart are you forever nineteen?
Or are you a stranger with nary a name,
Enclosed there forever behind a glass pane?
In an old photograph torn and battered and stained,
And faded to yellow in a brown leather frame?"
If those words do not make a person think, I do not know what can.
No song snippets here, but I'm thinking he will remain a mystery for a long time in the minds of those who found him.
ReplyDeleteLeigh - Probably forever. Even if civilization were miraculously to return, the individual deaths of hundreds of thousands or millions (or even billions) will scarcely be on the top of anyone's list.
Delete