The Journal
Poorer but happy, Savannah Addington sat in the comfort of her favorite chair. It had been a long day at the auction house and she'd spent plenty of money, but she was pleased with her purchases. Reaching for her reading glasses atop her golden hair, she slipped them down and peered through the lenses. What she held in her hands cost her $150.00, but was well worth the investment to this collector of old journals. She was fortunate to pay so little, when others had cost her much more.
Gazing down at the cover, she recalled the auctioneer's words. "Up for auction is the journal of Adam Cartwright, dating back to the year 1866."
Gently opening the worn journal cover, Savannah gazed at the first page which held the sketch of a handsome man. Running her fingers along it, a feeling of sadness crossed over her knowing this man was now long dead and buried. Below the sketch was the name of the artist and the year it was sketched. James Callan, 1866. Forcing herself to turn the page, the first entry came into view:
April 5, 1866
I always believed a man's thoughts should remain his own. Not written down for others to see. Today the store owner convinced me to keep a journal of my vacation. He's a good convincer. His beautiful daughter coaxing me didn't hurt. My thoughts of her will remain in my head.
My name's Adam Cartwright. I'm fast approaching thirty-six years of age. I'm the only son of Ben and Elizabeth Cartwright. I have two half brothers, Eric and Joseph. We reside on the Ponderosa Ranch outside of Virginia City, Nevada. I'm on a much needed vacation from life. This past year, I lived many months as an invalid and had a romance turn sour. I need time to find myself again. Wherever the trail takes me is where I'm headed.
April 6, 1866
I tire of the routes I've taken over and over again in the past. An old timer in the last town told me how to get to the river. Said there were two routes leading to the bridge I need to cross. One way I know like the back of my hand, where each home is. The other way is a stage road unknown to me. Do I stay on the familiar road or go the unfamiliar? That is the question.
Today when the trail got tiring, I told my horse, Sport, a joke - why pigs have no hair, but cows and horses do. It seems there was this big wind and the horses and cattle faced into it, but the pigs turned their backs to it, and the wind blew off their hair. That's why pigs have no hair and cows and horses do. I don't think the joke impressed him much. To whom it may concern, that joke was courtesy of my brother, Eric.
April 7, 1866
Today I was ambushed, but I got the best of the road agent and now the world is less one bad man. I hate taking a life, even when it's justified.
I felt deeply shaken, and to take my mind off the killing, I read some Shakespeare. Reading relaxes me.
My brother Joe once said he never met a female he didn't like. That I believe. I've met females I don't like. Some females I wish I'd never met. One in particular is Laura Dayton Cartwright. Why when things go wrong do people always say it was meant to be? Why was it meant to be? Why is life full of hard lessons learned? People say it's to make you a better person. Why? Was I a bad person before this? Is talk like that true, or a way to make someone feel better?
Who is Adam Cartwright? I wish I knew. Where is he going in life? I wish I knew. I wish I had a beer to cry in.
April 8, 1866
Today I caught up with a colorful wagon heading in my direction. I paid the lady to read my palm. It seemed harmless enough. She foretold of a beautiful woman entering my life and falling madly in love with me. Times I wonder if I'll ever marry. Ever be a father.
How I tire of beans and jerky, but it beats cattle fodder.
My mind's not on reading. I've been in one of those moods where you don't know what you want. That's like my life. I don't know what I want from it. Would it be nobler to remain on the Ponderosa or depart?
April 9, 1866
Today I've come to the fork in the road. The one the old timer told me about. Do I take the familiar road or the unfamiliar road? That's still the question. I'll camp here tonight. Make my decision in the morning.
Today I saw one hawk attack another. A territorial thing I suspect. Birds are no different than people. Always protecting what's theirs.
Have you ever watched a bird fly? They look so free. What I wouldn't give to fly just once. Sometimes when the traveling days are long, I daydream what I'd do with three wishes. For a day, I'd want to fly. My second wish would be to go back in time and meet my mother. My third wish would be to have more wishes.
Today I killed another rattler. That brings the journey's total to three. I hate snakes. They remind me of bad people. Ready to strike you down.
April 10, 1866
I decided to take the unfamiliar road. I swear as soon as I started down it, I pinched myself to see if I were still alive. I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. The beauty far surpassed my expectations. First thing, I stopped and took in a green vale amongst the hills. Perhaps this was heaven on earth. A short distance up was a white post-and-rail fence. The white magnificently stood out against the green of the rolling hills. A horse ranch no doubt. Only horse ranchers have the money to build such fine sprawling fences.
The prairie flowers are few. No doubt the result of a dry spring. My favorites are the purple ones.
I recited Shakespeare while riding.
I could not stay behind you: my desire,
More sharp than filed steel, did spur me forth;
And not all love to see you, though so much
As might have drawn one to a longer voyage,
But jealousy what might befall your travel,
Being skilless in these parts; which to a stranger,
Unguided and unfriended, often prove
Rough and unhospitable: my willing love,
The rather by these arguments of fear,
Set forth in your pursuit.
April 11, 1866
A coyote ran directly across my path today. Unusual for them to be so bold.
I found myself savoring the beauty of the land. This land sings to my heart. Calls out to my soul. I've stopped much and have traveled little. I stopped Sport and looked up at the sun. Here I have no stress. Just inner peace.
This road is isolated. I've not had contact with another human. The stage road is packed down nice. Makes it easy to travel. I'm sticking to the road. Not wandering from it. I don't know this land. Looking at the rolling hills, I can imagine Indians atop them. Ready to swoop down and attack me. No Indian in sight, because of lack of water. Small streams cutting through the prairie grass should be running, but aren't.
Have I mentioned I tire of beans and jerky? What I wouldn't give for one of Hop Sing's hot meals.
April 12, 1866
Today it rained a long spell. The open expanse of the prairie and hills provide no shelter from the storm. I came upon a rock grotto alongside the road and knelt within it. It was too low, or I was too tall to stand. Sport remained outside. He sheds water, but I don't. I kept my pistol handy, because in the grotto were many holes. My friends the rattlers would make unwelcome roommates.
April 13, 1866
The rain has stopped, but the gusts from the wind that followed are incredible. The dark sky indicates more rain, but the mighty winds will keep them at bay. The winds have a haunting sound to them. They are cold and pierce through my coat. I want to proceed with my journey, but await the winds to die down. The cold will keep the rattlers home.
I'm reminded of a poem by Thomas Lovell Beddoes titled Old Adam the Carrion Crow:
Old Adam, the carrion crow,
The old crow of Cairo;
He sat in the shower, and let it flow
Under his tail and over his crest;
And through every feather
Leak'd the wet weather;
And the bough swung under his nest;
For his beak it was heavy with marrow.
Is that the wind dying? O no;
It's only two devils, that blow,
Through a murderer's bones, to and fro,
In the ghosts' moonshine.
Ho! Eve, my grey carrion wife,
When we have supped on king's marrow,
Where shall we drink and make merry our life?
Our nest it is queen Cleopatra's skull,
'Tis cloven and crack'd,
And batter'd and hack'd,
But with tears of blue eyes it is full:
Let us drink then, my raven of Cairo!
Is that the wind dying? O no;
It's only two devils, that blow
Through a murderer's bones, to and fro,
In the ghosts' moonshine.
Have I mentioned how much I hate eating beans and jerky?
April 14, 1866
Today the weather was beautiful. A blue sky dotted with clouds. I came upon a creek that emptied from a small canyon lined with grotesque forms of a badlands. I filled my canteen and cleansed my face of the dirt the wind blew into it. The stream barely reached the top of my boots. Had the water been deep enough, I'd have bathed. I long for a bath as I long for real food.
April 15, 1866
Today my journey led me to the gravesite of a family of five. I removed my hat and paid my respects. Who were the Williams family? Where did they come from? Why were they here? The youngest was only five. The oldest was thirty. The graves were alongside the road. The gravestones caught my eye. The dry creek behind them lay as dead as they were.
I'm reminded of a poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson:
Old Yew, which graspest at the stones
That name the under-lying dead,
Thy fibres net the dreamless head,
Thy roots are wrapt about the bones.
The seasons bring the flower again,
And bring the firstling to the flock;
And in the dusk of thee, the clock
Beats out the little lives of men.
O not for thee the glow, the bloom,
Who changest not in any gale,
Nor branding summer suns avail
To touch thy thousand years of gloom:
And gazing on thee, sullen tree,
Sick for thy stubborn hardihood,
I seem to fail from out my blood
And grow incorporate into thee.
I'm sick of beans and jerky.
April 16, 1866
The meadowlarks serenaded me as I rode along. I love to hear birds sings. They're God's choir.
Today a young man and his young wife crossed my path. Mr. and Mrs. Schroeder invited me to dinner. They lived a few miles from the road, but my stomach was up to the journey. I feasted on fried chicken, potatoes, biscuits and apple pie. I was right. I am in heaven.
The couple allowed me to take a bath. While I bathed, the woman washed my clothes. Once cleaned, I dressed in my spare clothing. I was invited to stay the night and accepted.
How nice not to eat beans and jerky. How nice to sleep in a bed. I left immediately after finishing my plate of ham and eggs, but before leaving tucked a gold piece under my plate.
April 17, 1866
The top of the hills are spectacular. One hilltop's shaped like a pyramid. Another like the hull of a ship.
Back to eating beans and jerky.
April 18, 1866
Today I came to a green meadow with a creek running through it. The green hills alongside added to the beauty. Cattle grazing the meadow meant people. Where you see cattle, a ranch house can't be far and what a house.
Alongside the road it stands big and white glistening in the sun. Gingerbread adorns the front. There's a wraparound porch. To the left are three barns and many corrals.
The owners of the ranch are the Mills. Good people, but down on their luck. The house is two miles from the end of my journey. The bridge is not far. I don't want to leave this road. I want to stay here forever. For a handsome price, I bought the white house and ranch. Tomorrow I'll go to the nearby town and mail a letter to my family. Tonight I had to compose it. Here is what I wrote:
Dear Pa, Hoss, Little Joe and Hop Sing,
You're probably wondering what's happened to me. I was due home yesterday. I hope you aren't too worried.
Pa, I found my own Ponderosa. Now I know how you felt when first you laid eyes on yours. I bought it lock, stock and barrel. The acreage. The livestock. The house. The barns. The corrals. The furniture.
You know the road we took last time we looked at that bull? When you come to the river, head up the hill. Once you reach the top, turn to the left on Hooper Road. It's the old stage road. Keep heading down Hooper until you come to a big white house. It'll take time, but is well worth it. Inlaid on the stone fence is the name Mills. I'll leave it standing as it is to honor this pioneer family. Can't miss the house. It's the only one you'll see.
I'm in heaven and I never want to leave.
Adam
The end of the journal made Savannah long for more of this man's life. Frustration filled her as she reluctantly closed it before retiring to bed.
Savannah awakened from her sleep with a start. Her big blue eyes got bigger recollecting having visited an old bridge in her childhood. Placing a phone call to her father, she wrote down the information he relayed to her. She set off on her quest to find this heaven on earth and the journal author's own Ponderosa.
Her sleek silver BMW drove steadily through the countryside. Trying hard to keep her mind on her driving, she pushed thoughts of Adam Cartwright to the back of her mind, but they refused to stay there and kept creeping back in. Coming to a stop sign, she noticed a bridge ahead. Her heart raced as she drove over the bridge and looked at the mighty river below. As the top of the hill drew near, she slowed down. She crested the top and stopped, hoping to see a road on the left to turn onto. There it was, street sign and all. Hooper Road.
The first few feet were paved, but it quickly turned in to a packed dirt road, causing her to drive no faster than 30 mph. To her left was a vale and hills that gave her pause. As far as one could see, the land was unchanged and she was seeing it through the eyes of Adam Cartwright in 1866.
The white post-and-rail fence was still there and stood out against the green hillside. The beauty of the green meadows and hills was as far as the eye could see. Birdsong was the only sound to be heard.
It was all so beautiful and she too was convinced this was heaven on earth. It was like going back in time and seeing how the world used to look.
After what seemed an eternity, a stone fence came into view with the name Mills on it. Immediately following, three barns came into view. One was large, flanked by two smaller ones. Some side planks on the three barns were missing. The corrals were listing, but it was the house that tugged at her heart. What was once a magnificent home was now crumbling. Its once white paint job had given way to the faded color of the wood beneath. Much of the gingerbread hung askew or was missing. No doubt the present owner of the land rented out the house and cared nothing for it. Savannah wondered how anyone could let a part of history just crumble.
Hating for her journey and this heaven on earth to end, she slowly headed towards the highway nearby. A monument caught her attention and she paused to read it. The words sliced through her heart like a hot knife through butter.
Adam Cartwright 1830-1922.
Don't stand beside my grave and weep,
For I'm not there, I do not sleep,
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond's glint on snow,
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn's rain.
When you awaken in morning's hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush,
of quiet birds in circle flight,
I am soft stars that shine at night,
Don't stand beside my grave and cry,
I am not there. I did not die.
The End