The Crow's Nest 6

6

            This went on for decades.  MY roving eye endured.  Ever reaching further into the piles accessible to me, ever repeating that scrutiny.  Ever, ever, slowly, slowly hearing ever very slightly more from the mother of her own legacy.  From that came the tale of Simon, the fence post and… the mention of “The Crow’s Nest” “in the attic”.  I did not understand then that The Crow’s Nest was about thirty feet straight up above where I sat.  I don’t recall realizing much of anything about Simon or The Crow’s Nest. 

            One day, during negotiations over a trivial offering; an old set of croquet clubs in their old box with their end stakes, wickets and painted balls...:  These lay next to a framed shadow box of old G.A.R. (Civil War; Grand Army of the Republic) encampment medals that I HAD purchased but … those lay before a gnarled globe shaped form of old rope wrapped about a barn pulley set… that I didn’t want… we reached a momentary SILENT impasse.  The mother felt the croquet set was “good” and “valuable”.  I did not and had rejected it outright.  This brisk action created the silent impasse.  The mother scrutinized me.  I remained silent.  She further surveyed me and then said “You are very patient”.

            I quickly responded, without thinking, “It’s the Indian in me”.  The Mother actually drew back at that but said nothing.  Then, after collecting herself in her business arm chair she said “I never would have suspected”.  Then she paused and as I said nothing she continued.  “I know that you would have never said something like that unless you knew what it means.  I know also you wouldn’t have said that to me unless you knew that I would know what it means”.

            Actually my utterance was very not thought out and these from the mother were not reaching any point with me either.  That was fine for the damage was done and I needed to explain nothing.

            Her next statements clarified all this.  “I have Indian blood too,  You must have already determined that.  How long?  I have always wondered why you kept at it here so long.  Why you proceed the way you do.  Why you try to maneuver me the way you do.  Why I must always flank you… and why… I have come to actually enjoy all that.  Now I know.  I never considered that.  Well:  It is that we are equal after all.” 

            All this I took as a bad directive for our dealings.  I do, in fact, have the old New England icon “Indian blood”.  I do consciously know that this makes me different from my fellow old New Englanders.  I have known that a long time but only as I became older have I been able to refine this difference into actual iota.  The two iota being brought forward here are the inexhaustible ability to “wait” and the complete non-compliance with the moral standards of the Christian Western world.  This last, a complex and broad social and inner-self construction, I refer to as “moral hygiene”.  I don’t have that; moral hygiene.  The Mother now knew it.  She didn’t have moral hygiene either.  She also knew I would “wait” and what that actually means.  It means I knew I could wait until she was dead. 

            At this exact moment; a moment of great and permanent change in our dealings, we were interrupted by the Mother’s daughter coming into the front of the house and into the parlor.  Our conversation ended right there and was never continued although from there on it lurked silently through the rest of our dealings and produced lasting results.