The Westfield Gardener: Part 1
The first stab at a serialized literary endeavor
As promised, the next posting here at A Hopeful Diversion takes a different turn: the first part of a story with some modest literary ambition. (As not promised, it’s taken me more than a week to get here.) This fictional endeavor is written in a first-person narrator style and placed in a contemporary setting. The title is provisional; maybe a better idea will come along the way.
The plan today is to continue the story, with future editions at some point possibly going behind the subscriber paywall. Hopefully, I don’t leave the interested handful of readers hanging for too long and that future editions appear with greater frequency. But I’m learning not to make too many promises.
Without further ado, I offer the humble beginnings of “The Westfield Gardener”….
***
1.
A fine midlife crisis this is.
Most men turn their eyes toward flashy sportscars or maybe some sort of high-tech gadgetry. Back in the day, Uncle Pete ditched his boring, practical sedan for a Harley Low Rider. A few years ago my neighbor converted his mother-in-law apartment into a state-of-the-art home theater. (Between us, the football-viewing experience wasn't that spectacular.)
Me, though? I'm stalking rare books. First editions of Bernard Bailyn's Ideological Origins of the American Revolution and Alexis de Tocqueville's Democracy in America (not the original French), to be specific.
Too intellectual for some in my world. Makes sense, right? Our upper middle-class neighbors are more educated than most, and the occasional neighborhood barbecue is a reasonably civilized affair. But Bailyn and Tocqueville could kill any conversation as deftly as bringing up the details of Aunt Martha's chronic skin condition.
And don't get me wrong: my wife is intelligent. She has her own four-year degree and takes an inordinately active interest in crafting our kids' educational experiences. But I don't have to drone on long about the "country whigs" and the origins of their fondness for natural rights, and Lise's eyes glaze over.
At the same time, my enthusiasm for the topic is too reactionary for others. There aren't many of us here on the history faculty at Westfield. But I certainly stand out: a white male unburdened by trendy guilt or what previous generations would have considered an exotic academic specialty. Erwin, my senior colleague who still teaches seminars on East Asian and African colonialism, once jokingly referred to me as "our affirmative action hire."
"Seriously, Dan — how did you get through the screening process?" he chortled.
Not that we lack a common understanding or fail to enjoy each other's company. Our differences might have meant more in Erwin's days as a raging crusader in the Cal State system. Well past 60, Erwin has one foot out the door. He keeps threatening to retire. One of these days he might actually go through with it, but for now we share adjoining offices and cordial respect.
He'd probably be embarrassed to have dusty Tocqueville tomes gracing any of his bookshelves.
My campus office, however, is where these little midlife crises would have to go. There might be a corner at home where they wouldn't clash with the decor. But even there, Lise would only hound me about spending four figures on esoteric antiquities. One child just starting college, another promised help buying her own car, and a third with braces in his near future. Not to mention lessons and camps and sports teams, and on and on....
Why do I have to give myself so much guilt about this? I can make a professional case for buying them. But do I really need the rare first editions? Really?
Lise's job is stuck at part-time while she pours in extra volunteer hours to the younger kids' hybrid homeschool. My family may be boring, but I never told you we were entirely normal.
They're good kids. Don't get me wrong. It's just that the struggles persist and intensify, struggles of feeling like I'm fiddling while the nation burns. You'd think this American history professor would come up with a better metaphor, but sometimes you've got to hand it to the ancients. Images like that one really stick.
How long have I been staring at this screen? Too long. I shut down my laptop for the long weekend. Bailyn and Tocqueville can wait.
***
Midlife crisis or midwinter boredom? Here in the Midwest, they can be hard to distinguish. The Thursday commute home is colored gray by heaps of slush and dirtied snow alongside the lanes of traffic and by thickening cloud cover that almost conceals the transition to early dusk.
And what to look forward to on the other side: distracting myself from the freshman papers that need to be graded by scrolling the tribal madness of social media? Or skipping both to argue about who has time to make dinner and which leftovers will be reheated?
The ringing phone interrupts my podcast on the Bluetooth. It's Brian from church. I pause a second before connecting the call: "Hey there."
"Did I catch you on the road?" he almost apologizes.
"It's all right. I'll be in the driveway soon, but we can talk."
"I'll make it quick. You comin' to the breakfast on Saturday?" The men's group at Redeemer. I'd almost forgotten but wasn't going to let Brian in on that thought.
"Sure, it's uh, what, eight o'clock?"
"8:30."
"Even better, sounds good." An extra half-hour to sleep, if my body doesn't decide to spontaneously wake at some unnatural hour. Good thing it's early enough in the semester. Having no big papers to grade (nor decent weather to enjoy) leaves some extra margin for a Saturday.
"Awesome, brother, look forward to seeing you!"
Brian's enthusiasm for all things church life carries the edge of contagion to it. I enjoy his magnetic personality in small doses. I kind of like dipping my toes into those waters, and it's been good for the kids.
It's also nice to be able to talk a little about church when I call my Mom in Ohio every other weekend or so. Seriously, who wants to lie to their Mom? Her church friends have helped to keep her going since we lost Dad a couple years ago. They brought me to the little Baptist church what seemed like every Sunday.
***
My mind is still replaying a decades-old memory of kids teasing me at a Sunday School program practice. I take a deep breath and close the front door behind me. Lise looks a little irritated. Oh boy, not again.
"Did you stop by the pharmacy? Josh needs his inhaler refilled...."
Oof. Not that I didn't know this fact. "Can I go after dinner?"
She chops bell peppers. Her eyes refuse to look up. "They close at 7." I instinctively look down at my watch. "It's practically on the way home. He needs that prescription." I nod, biting my lip. "He came home from basketball practice a little wheezy again...."
I'm not going to win. "No, you're right. I'll run back there now."
"It's fine. After dinner is fine." Her tone says otherwise.
Our daughter Tory takes advantage of the uncomfortable pause to make a beeline from the hall toward the refrigerator. "We're going to be having dinner soon," Lise admonishes her.
"I know." Tory peers into the fridge until her eyes connect with the jug of iced tea. She grabs it and closes the door.
Lise casts her voice in my direction. "You can thank your daughter for giving Josh a ride home."
"Thanks, Tory," I throw out thoughtlessly. My wife appreciates the convenience of it all, but it's still hard to reconcile myself to the fact that our little independent firebrand has been licensed to drive by the state of Indiana. Too bad the state also requires a relative picking up a prescription to also be an adult.
"Mm hmm," she says, brushing the auburn locks from her face before pouring herself a glass of iced tea. Otherwise, my presence is barely acknowledged.
My winter coat is barely unzipped. The keys are still in my pocket. The decision is easy. Without a word, I rezip the coat and head back to the front door.
Lise adds the peppers into the salad bowl. Our eyes finally make contact. The hostility has abated. "Can you pick up something else for me for dinner while you're there?"
"Uh, sure..." It does mean venturing farther into Walmart at an hour when the volume of people-watching is especially provocative. But what choice do I have?
My cell phone rings, just as she says something about which brand of vinaigrette dressing to buy. It's Cynthia, the provost. She hardly ever calls me, and especially not after hours.
I trudge out on the front porch toward the Honda in the driveway, avoiding pockets of slush along the way. "Hello, Cynthia, this is Dan."
Provost Adams is all business. She offers even less chit-chat than usual. "Good evening, and sorry to bother you."
"No, it's all right, just off on an errand..."
"Look, I hate to do this to you. But we need you for an on-campus meeting Saturday morning." Ever since I took the position as chair of the history department, and the modest extra pay that comes with it, this has been part of the deal. Making myself available for extra meetings. But having it come on the weekend is a rare occurrence.
"Is anything wrong?" My first instinct is to imagine a crisis communication event. I put her on Bluetooth and carefully back out of the driveway.
"No, fortunately, it’s something else. It's a real opportunity." The way Cynthia emphasizes the word 'opportunity' captures my attention. "One that came up kind of quickly, and I'm sorry about that. But we would like a few key department chairs like yourself there."
"Well, count me in then. What time?"
"Nine o'clock. Look. All the details will be in an email that's going out soon. I just wanted to make sure you saw it first. Thank you."
"I understand. I'll see you then." Click.
As I wait for the left turn onto the main road toward Walmart, it occurs to me that I won't be able to make that men's breakfast at Redeemer after all. I’ll call Brian back later.
***
The wait at the pharmacy wasn’t too long, but naturally I bought the wrong brand of salad dressing. Seated at the dinner table, Lise has little to say to me. The short time together with the family features several questions about basketball practice and Josh’s asthmatic symptoms and a series of corresponding one-syllable answers. Our independent middle child rolls right through it to share tidbits of teen drama that followed Thursday’s classes.
I drift back into thinking about how easily we could pay for those rare books — the Bailyn, the Tocqueville, even the signed David Hackett Fischer copy that I came across while browsing online. So much appreciation lacking for the nation’s founding principles and the fascinating story behind them. It’s hard enough to convey to my own children, much less the finest minds in Westfield’s freshman class.
“What do you think, Dad?” The question comes from a Westfield freshman who just happens to be my oldest child. Thursdays and Sundays are the only days Addison is usually home to eat dinner with us. I try to dodge the fact that I missed the context of her question.
She clears her throat, ready to set up the explanation again. My wife intervenes with her own dismissive sigh. “It’s all right, Addy. We’ll catch him up later.”
“Catch up what?” I say.
Excusing herself from the table, Addison can barely conceal her mild distress.
Leave it to Josh to break the mood. Hardly a word spoken all evening, and then a swooping declaration that Purdue’s basketball team plays tonight with a salesman’s elevator pitch of why he and I need to tune in.
“Sure, son. I’m sure we can watch some of it….”
Lise glances deliberately at the incorrect bottle of vinaigrette. Her expression thaws. “Appreciate everyone’s help clearing the table….”
Tory shrugs her shoulders, scoops up her plate and silverware and dashes to the sink. Josh spouts off some statistics about shooting percentage and offensive rebounds as he clumsily carries items from the dining room.
It’s only then that Lise engages me directly. “Who was the call from? When you left?” I almost expected her to say, “another woman?”, which was technically true.
“Cynthia, uh, the provost. Some kind of meeting on campus Saturday….”
“That’s kind of odd. Not in the afternoon, I hope. Tori has her concert.” It would be more enjoyable to attend if most of the young performers shared a zeal for their assigned musical instruments.
“No, 9 AM.” I’m not sure if she was planning for me to go to the men’s breakfast or if it’s even on her radar.
“That’s good.” She drains the last of her beverage glass. Her face looks no more careworn or disappointed than usual. The way she brushes away a lock of her hair stirs a reflection. Tori takes after her mother more than either of them would care to admit.
I grab the last armful of dishes from the table and retire briefly to my home office. There’s some time to search for additional rare early American history books before the basketball game starts on TV.
To be continued…
***