July 1st

…Gathering wood was pretty easy. First, I gathered all the closest wood and came back to camp. Then, I would have to walk further and further each time to find decent logs or twigs. I turned each piece over and sometimes shook it to make sure it wasn’t soaked through with water. After about thirty minutes of doing this, I was almost half a mile away from camp. The rocks on the Dearborn River are smooth and multi-colored, ideal for skipping on a cool summer day. During the wet seasons the place where I walked is covered with water that comes down from the surrounding mountains. After awhile my feet were sore from tiptoeing over the rocks. I saw our tent in the distance and the smoke coming from the fire. From where I was I could see John fishing at the bend before the bridge. His T-shirt was splashed and that made it a darker blue to match his jeans. Abe was beside him just carrying his fishing rod. He wasn’t a good fisherman like John, so I usually stayed out of his way. Abe was wearing his cut-off khaki shorts that showed off his white legs. He walked to the other side of the river, plodding like he was in quicksand.
     The sun hid behind the mountains running shadows along the field. Water fell from the mountainside—as if there really were such waters as in a child’s fairy tale book. The sky looked orange like the hairs of a fox in winter. We had been camping like this for a week now and I still found it difficult to sleep at night. I did dream, though, once I fell asleep. The one I remember best was about a broken rainbow. My friends stood in a field and the rainbow started breaking and falling like a bridge might into the grass.
     Picking up one more piece of driftwood from the ground, I discovered the home of a field mouse. The mouse ran off, and I walked around in the grass looking for him. I felt sorry for breaking his home and stood over it. The mouse had several pieces of cloth, procured from the countryside, arranged as insulation inside; I noticed a pile of grass that must have been his bed. I stood around awhile repairing the house as best as I could when I saw the mouse sticking his head out of a bush.
     “Leave my house!” The mouse said.
     “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you,” I apologized as the mouse walked over and took the piece of wood from me.
     “Then you should open your eyes, boy!” He wiped his feet on the ground and cleaned off the spectacles I suppose he had dropped when I startled him. “Now, listen. I will forgive you only if you stay and drink a cup of coffee with me.” He opened the door to his house and motioned for me to wipe my feet on a doormat that read, A mouse’s house is not for a louse.
     “I don’t care for coffee.” I said honestly, and when he looked offended I thought I had better change the subject, “What is your name?”
     “Bradford…Russell Bradford…and this is my land you’re on… I suppose you have a name?”
     “Daniel,” I answered.
     Mr. Bradford put a coffeepot on a primitive looking stove and fumbled with the soap as he washed his hands, “I think I’ll call you Trapp.”
     “But that’s not my name, really.” I suggested.
     Mr. Bradford tilted his head back to look through his spectacles and said, “You look like a Trapp to me.”
     “Like a bear-trap?”
     “No, Trapp—with two “p”s…like a nickname.”
     “Hmm, I’ve never had a nickname. Does it go after or before?”
     “In the middle,” he gestured as if the name were written in the air, “like Andrew ‘Ol’ Hickory’ Jackson.”
     “I see. But I could pretend, though, that I got it from trapping polar bears, or some other monster.”
     “Or from trapping mice,” Mr. Bradford added, and although he said it sideways, I didn’t understand until later that night at camp.
The kitchen was just as I imagined a kitchen in the old west would look like. A horseshoe loomed over the door, a real one covered in rust, not those painted kind, and a table sat crooked in the middle of the room, full of splinters—as I found out. The windows were covered in dust and obscured the river outside, but it was dark now anyway. A white basin sat in a corner for the sink, and before I went further into the house, Mr. Bradford made me wash my hands in it.
After the kitchen, Mr. Bradford led me into the den, or what he probably called the observatory, because in the middle of the room, cozy otherwise, an enormous telescope went through the roof. Papers and books were scattered all over the room, and different sketches of the moon were taped on the walls.
     “Do you study astronomy, Daniel?” He said.
     “No, I do find it interesting though. I have read some books on space and stuff.”
     “Oh, you like to read…tell me, have you ever read Moby Dick?”
     “No, but I’ve read Treasure Island.”
     Mr. Bradford smiled and walked over to a huge bookshelf against the wall. “You are young and don’t know any better, but Moby Dick doesn’t belong in the same library as Treasure Island.” He picked out a copy of each book and I noticed that they were leather-bound. Moby Dick was frighteningly bound in deep black leather, and the gold edges served only to embellish that awfulness.
     “That’s a beautiful book,” I said.
     “Well thank you,” Mr. Bradford blushed as if he bound the book himself, “ but Moby Dick cannot be read in paper-back, just as the Bible cannot be.”
     “What do you mean?” I was confused, but curious.
     “Just what I said.” He replied flipping through the pages.
“But they both take place at sea?” I said, referring back to his remark about Treasure Island, trying to understand his idea, and he looked up.
     “You say you don’t fathom me, eh? Huh—do you get me?” He chuckled to himself.
     “I’m afraid I’m lost.”
“Well, first of all, the White Whale’s sea is a mythical sea, you know—as vast and undying as the planets that spin above us.” He made his hands into a telescope of some kind; “One might look out for Odysseus fleeing the giant Cyclops on this water. Or even spy upon Thetis—weeping for mad Achilles on the rocks!” Mr. Bradford was getting caught up in it, but he looked at me kindly. “You look confused.”
     “I am.”
     “Let me see…for instance, there is a chapter in Moby Dick called ‘Squid,’ and it is the most terrible chapter in all American literature.” Mr. Bradford noticed that I was still confused and sat back in his leather chair and began to speak, but a collection cobwebs caught his attention, and he picked up his cane and prodded them until they fell down onto his nose, “Not terrible in a Jane Austen way, my boy—not that dreadful woman, but terrible like…the surface of the sun, or…the Mind of God. Yes, quite that, the Mind of God. Some nameless Arctic wind that blows from the north and hovers over you in the darkness, snuffing the candle you read by.”
     “I don’t read by candlelight.” I said and Mr. Bradford clenched his fists.
     “Now you are being facetious!”
     “But really, Mr. Bradford, how can you compare a silly book to the Sun?”
     “You don’t think books give off light, then?” He asked, with a knowing smile.     
     “There is no need to be metaphoric. I want a simple answer.” I was getting angry, but looking back, I don’t really see why.
     “So you’re smarter than you look, you say?” Mr. Bradford laughed like I had told him a joke. But let’s be metaphoric, you know why? Because that’s the only way we can understand concepts. You and I are silly creatures and have these silly books and we all sit around enjoying our silliness.”
     “You’re using my words against me.”
     “I know, but I only do it to make a point. Hear me out. We are talking about Moby Dick and that is fine, but I want you to understand that now I am talking of great works of art in general. And by great works of art I don’t mean flawless. Is the DaVinci’s Last Supper flawless? No it is not. Michaelangelo had a much finer hand, but this is useless, you see? Moby Dick is not by far flawless. Did you know that one writer called it the most insincere book he ever read, in so many words?”
     “No.”
     “Well he did. Can you think of any reason why?”
     “I’ve never read it.”
     “Ah yes, well, I will tell you. Because it is largely a book of symbols and rhetoric, that’s why. But I’ll tell you something else, it is some of the most thoughtful rhetoric ever written. Sometimes I can’t help but to feel sorry for the man who wrote it.”
     “Mark Twain.”
     “What do you mean, Mark Twain!? Don’t you know anything? Herman Melville wrote Moby Dick!
     “Mark Twain wrote The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.”
     “For God’s sake, I know who wrote The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn!” He rose from the chair and paced around, intent on making me see his point. “Now, back to the metaphors. Let’s relax and I will explain.”
     “I am relaxed.” I sipped on the tea Mr. Bradford made for me instead of the coffee.
     “Good. Ok, let me see. Do you believe in ghosts, Daniel?”
     “I believe in ghosts very much.”
     Mr. Bradford cocked his head at me again, and said, “Well, I don’t know what you mean by that, but whatever. I was hoping you would say you didn’t believe in ghosts, so I could continue with my point.” He waited for me.
     “No I don’t believe in ghosts, spirits, poltergeists, or goblins.”
     “Good. That was a good answer. Well, I have news for you, There are ghosts in the world. I have seen them.”
     “I think you’re batty or insane or something.” I remarked, looking at the well-drawn picture of the moon on the wall.”
     “Well it does no good to say that, I think. Besides it is mean. Play along with me for a bit. I am building to something.”
     “Ok, where are these ghosts you claim to have seen?” My voice was thick with sarcasm and mockery, but Mr. Bradford was exited again.
     “Why, but in the very books and paintings we have mentioned! There are ghosts in all of them, which escape when we stop to admire them and possess us. How is that for a metaphor? I truly believe in this, so don’t mock me. There is something other than the words. But this ghost as I call it, it is never written, never was. Now listen to this, another symbol for you.” Mr. Bradford looked straight into my eyes, “No my boy, it is never written, but it just hangs there, hangs mysteriously—like a portrait in the attic, thoughtfully placed out of sight. And although you don’t know who this woman is, you understand that she is the most beautiful woman you have ever seen.” Mr. Bradford grew quiet and squinted into the telescope. “There is a vagueness to Moby Dick, I think, that makes it great…there is a kind of glow to it like the moon. He motioned for me to look, “Now, do you see it?”
     “I see the moon…” Mr. Bradford’s telescope hardly magnified it, and I wasn’t all that impressed.
     “Of course you see the moon! Let me see again…the moon fascinates me.”
     Trying to look interested I asked him a question, “So, the moon is your specialty?”
     “Yes Yes, I have studied extensively on the properties and behaviors of the moon. Did you know that the moon is made from green cheese?”
     “No.”
     “Can you even imagine, my boy, an entire moon made out of cheese!”
     It was dark and I remembered Abe and John were waiting for me, so I told Mr. Bradford goodbye and that I was sorry for breaking his roof.
     “Come back again, my boy!” He waved out of the window as I walked along the riverside and back to the campsite. We ate well, and later got out the acoustic guitar and played some old songs.

--Daniel Stepp


(Author's Note: This is an odd story that began sincerely enough as a jounal entry from my trip to Montana one summer. I got tired of writing, like so many other journal-writers, and wrote in Mr. Bradford, the Astronomer field mouse who loves Moby Dick. Not too interesting a story for sure, but it has its charm, I believe.)

Last Updated: 11/18/2003 11:46:15 AM