"Hello," he said cheerfully, although still with a little bit of suspicion in his voice. "I assume you're the person I talked to on the phone a little while ago?"
Garison replied, "Yes sir, I am. My name is Garison Fitch and this is my wife Heather." They shook hands all around and exchanged amenities.
The man gestured to a porch swing and said, in the southern accent one still found in a few of Virginia’s older families, "Light and set. Don't have many visitors when my grandchildren are gone. Went down to Florida while my great-grandchildren were on spring break down there. Chaperoning a bunch of high school band kids isn't my idea of a vacation, but they like doing stuff like that. They go to all the band camps and competitions and everything.
"Say your name is Fitch?" he asked. "You don't look familiar, but if you're family I should know, I apologize. Lord knows there's a passel of us around."
"No," Garison told him, "You wouldn't know us. We come from over in Colorado, although we are...ah, distant kin. I mean, I am. Heather would only be kin to you by marriage."
"You don't say?" David smiled. Either he has all his teeth, Heather mused, or he has the most authentic implants I have ever seen. He smiled playfully at Heather, a child of an era before harassment suits, and quipped, "Now that I know you and I aren't blood kin I wish I had met you before you married him."
"Thank you," was all Heather could think of to say as she blushed. He struck her as a nice old man rather than a dirty one.
"Yes, well, you see," Garison fumbled as he was trying to explain what he was about, "We have been researching my family tree, and we ran across your name. We had traced down to your father, Wesley Allen Fitch, and—when I saw that in that book it listed you as still living—we thought we would like to hunt you up. Meaning no offense, but you are the oldest member of the Fitchs we have yet found alive."
"None taken," David dismissed with the wave of a hand. "You're probably right. My oldest brother, he passed away a year ago at the age of ninety-three. That left me as the senior statesman—so far as I know.
"You say you're from the Colorado branch of the family? I never even knew there was one until a few years back when some lady came through researching the family. What was her name? Must have been back in the fifties." He chuckled, "That was before either of you were born, wasn't it? More than just a few years, then." With a wink at Heather, he added with a smile, "Shoot, I was young and good-looking then."
Heather asked, in answer the man's question, "Was her name Maureen Carnes? Maiden name Fitch?"
"Believe that's right. It's been a long time. Still, I think I had a copy of that family history she wrote up. I reckon you've seen it or you wouldn't have found me. Now, why did you come all the way from Colorado to look up an old man like me?" he asked. "If you're hoping for some buried Fitch treasure, you're out of luck. You hoping to find some old stories, or maybe fill in a couple holes in the family history? I know some of that stuff and will be more than happy to help you. Won't make you rich, I'm afraid, but it might be entertaining."
"Well, that's not exactly what we're looking for, anyway," Garison said, still fumbling for words. "Although sometime I would like to come by and hear anything you have to say about the family, or my—your grandkids."
Heather injected, "Actually, Mister Fitch, when you hear what Garison has to say about the family tree, you're probably going to think he's the nuts."
Garison and David both looked at her strangely, but then the old man turned to Garison. "You found some skeletons in our closet, Son? I wouldn't doubt that there are a few. All families have at least one black sheep or a few that are more red-blooded than blue. I have heard some odd tales about the Fitchs, passed down by my father."
"Well then," Garison said, "I wonder if you have heard this one I, um, recently heard. How far back does your knowledge of our family history go?"
The old man thought a minute, then replied, "Pretty far. I don't know every person between here and there, but I have heard stories of as far back as a woman named Sarah Fitch. They say George Washington was a pall bearer at her funeral." He hesitated, then added, "I've even heard a legend about her husband—he died a long time before she did—but I never believed it."
He looked around and, motioning them to lean in, said, "Some people say he never died. It's a story my daddy passed to me and his daddy before him and so on back. They say it's a family secret, but it's too crazy to be true. It's probably been kept a secret because anyone caught telling it would be thrown in the loony bin."
Heather and Garison looked at each other with raised eyebrows, then Garison told David, "I'm pretty sure the story you're referring to is the story I'm thinking of and, well, it's not as crazy as you think. I take that back—it is crazy. But it's true."
The man eyed them suspiciously, then said, "Are we talking about the same story? The one I am talking about is a legend so...far out it has to be crazy. Personally, I've always thought it sounded like whoever made it up borrowed or stole it from the Bible story about Elijah. Just what story are you talking about?"
Garison took a deep breath then began, "Like I said, I am Garison Fitch. I built a machine..." He then went on to tell the whole story to David Fitch.
When he had finished, David looked him in the eye for a moment, then said, "I admire you for saying all that straight to me—eye to eye. I'm not saying I believe it, but I think you do."
"That's what everyone says," Garison grumbled.
"I think this girl here believes it, too—and neither one of you seems crazy."
"I can assure you, we're not," Heather told him. "Well, at least not about this, anyway. As near as we can figure, it's all true."
Garison mentioned, "Those grandkids of yours? They're my grandkids, too. Give or take a 'great-great' or two."
David shook his head and smiled, "You know, maybe I do believe you. I need something like that to believe in. Makes this whole world seem a little bit stranger.
"But why did you tell me? You took a great risk, you know? What if I was to call the loony bin on you?"
"You can," Garison said. "But I think you know I'm telling the truth. I...I really am your ancestor—and your cousin."
"You know," David said, "My daddy said the legend said he—you might come back some day. Old Mother Sarah, she always thought you would, they say. Maybe not in her time—but some day. Supposedly she even left a letter for you somewhere, but no one ever knew what it said." The man smiled, and chuckled, "You're kind of like King Arthur, you know it? So where's Excalibur?"
"I'm afraid it melted on arrival," Garison replied with a shrug. "You come to Colorado, though, and I can show it to you. Doesn't look like much anymore—and I can't open the housing for another two thousand years, but it's there."
They talked all morning long before Heather and Garison excused themselves. David had asked them to stay at his house until his grandchildren got back, which was expected to be early that afternoon. After that, David said, it might be best for Garison and Heather to leave. "These young kids, they'd think their grampa was foolish, believing this nonsense. Kids today just don't understand. They've grown up with too much television and not enough Brothers Grimm or H.G. Wells."
"Before we go," Garison said, "Could I see some pictures of your grandkids? Our grandkids."
"Sure," David said proudly, rising from his chair. He led them inside to a long hallway and said, "We call this our wall of fame." He proceeded to walk Garison through the myriad of pictures, explaining them all and telling of various sports and academic accomplishments.
Garison stared at them with a sort of awe, completely unaware he was holding Heather's hand on one side and David's on the other. He finally looked down at the hand holding David's and said, "This is going to sound weird, especially coming from someone half your age, but holding your hand is like holding my son's hand. I don't know why. It was the hand of an almost four-year old when last I held it but—I don't know."
"Somehow," David said in awe, "I
know what you mean. For just a second there, I was five years old again and walking through the park, holding my Daddy's hand."
Garison took David's hand in both of his and, as he felt the weathered skin and looked into the wrinkled face, he felt like he was seeing what Justin would have looked like as an old man. Garison happened to notice his watch and, knowing the church's office hours from their ad in the phone book, he said, "I could stay here forever David, but I've got to go."
"I understand," David nodded, Garison having already told him of their next stop. "I can't tell you what this has meant to me. And, if it's worth anything, I really do believe you're Garison Fitch. I don't know why, but I know it's true."
There were hugs all around and, as Garison started to get into the car, David called out, "You come back and see me."
"We will," they both assured him.
"Good-bye, Gramps," David said with a laugh.
March 22, 2005
I cannot imagine that the town we are driving around was actually Mount Vernon once. This is such an ugly town, compared to its former beauty. Even the skies above are overrun with "progress." There is the occasional city park to contend with that's well-manicured or the immaculate grounds of the Washington estate, but they strike me as more of a mockery of their former grandeur than as a symbol of beauty. You can put an oasis in the desert, but you still have a desert.
There had once been many trees in and around our town. Now, there are far fewer. They've been cut down to provide space for mini-malls and video stores. Certainly, Mount Vernon has more trees than, say, Abilene, Texas, but it hasn't half of what it once had. I take that back. It has lots of trees, but the forests are gone. I guess you can't have forests and cities at the same time. If that's the case, I can tell you easily which I'd rather do without. What made Cain think cities would be such a good thing, anyway?
I am sure the city council would tell you that Mount Vernon retains much of its New England glory in a pamphlet trying to lure vacationers, but it does not. Maybe...maybe if you had never been to Mount Vernon in its pretty days you could convince yourself that it is pretty now. All I can convince myself to do is cry. And, even though He had a much more substantial reason for crying, I was reminded of Jesus weeping for Jerusalem, fallen from its grandeur as we drove around today. Maybe it hasn't gone through the spiritual collapse that Jerusalem had endured, but Mount Vernon has certainly fallen far since the last time I saw it—a week before.
There is nothing that breaks my heart more than something ancient that man is destroyed. Even on my land in La Plata Canyon, I will not cut down a live tree. If one is looking for firewood, nature leaves plenty of dead trees for us to cut up. Why must we bring down a two hundred year old tree just so we can have a fire? Besides, fire of old wood is so much easier to start and keep burning.
Heather tells me my thoughts would get me labeled as a "tree-hugger" today. Maybe so, but I don't think of myself as a fanatic. I don't place a higher priority on animals than on men, or on trees than men, for instance. I guess my stance is just that we have a brain and ought to use it. Farmers learned a long time ago (the hard way) that it's possible to plow and plant the soil without destroying it. That's all I'm saying: use your head.
I must stop writing here, for as I think about both extremes of the environmental issue I will become more angry and less coherent and it has so little (nothing) to do with where I go now and what we are going to do.
They went straight from David's over to the oldest Anglican church in Mount Vernon, Garison typing frantically on the keyboard of his laptop as they went. The church met in a large building made of stone such as are never built anymore, Heather’s Garison thought as they pulled up. It was old and simple, yet still quite attractive.
Heather remarked, "You don't see buildings like that anymore. Glass and steel have replaced solid stones not so much because they are more attractive or last longer, but because they are cheaper," Heather had told Garison. "Compare the cathedral at Chartres to the Shamrock Hotel in Houston. Which lasted longer?"
"Having not heard of the Shamrock Hotel, I'll guess Chartres."
"Exactly. It's still there. The Shamrock was torn down after a dozen years or so due to faulty construction."
Garison shrugged, as if embarrassed, and admitted, "I sometimes like the glass skyscrapers I have seen here in the east, or back in Denver. The way they reflect the sky or the buildings around them can be very attractive. But I like old things, too. When it comes to architecture, I'm not a purist. I like what I like."
"I'm an old building person myself," she replied, then quickly added, "But lets not get into that argument again."
"We've had an argument about architecture?" he asked, disbelievingly.
With a shrug that was supposed to lighten the moment but somehow didn't, she told him, "Garison, we've had an argument about just about everything."
"I find that hard to believe."
She smiled genuinely and, reaching out a hand to touch his shoulder, said, "I think maybe we're going to move past that, now." He smiled reassuringly in return.
It was not the building the Anglican congregation had met in during Garison's day, but it was about two hundred years old. It had been built when it was discovered that the old stone building had structural problems that were easier done away with than repaired, proving that stone wasn't always better. Garison imagined there were people back when the previous one was destroyed who complained about tearing the old building down, and now this was the old building. It occurred to him, and made him smile, that he probably could name most of the complainers.
They found the office of the vicar in the back. The church actually had several men of the cloth serving there, but only one was at the building that late in the day. He was a kindly looking old man with a bare head and a wreath of white hair who smiled when they came in. Garison remarked to himself how little change there had been in the vicars' outfits in two hundred and fifty years. He wore a simple robe, though a modern shirt could be seen beneath it.
The vicar stood up, proving to be taller than either Garison or Heather had first assumed. He had a slight hunch to his back that Garison guessed was from the fact that the man was a very unassuming sort and often bowed slightly so as not to tower over the person he was talking to. After offering his hand, the vicar asked, "May I help you?"
"Yes," Garison said. "My name is Garison Fitch and we have come for something we believe you to have."
The vicar's eyes widened as he came around the desk, staring intently at Garison. Despite the fact that the prettiest woman in the world was in the room, he may not have even noticed her. He asked Garison in an awed voice, "Are you really him?"
Before leaving La Plata Canyon, Heather had handed him "his" wallet, telling him that identification was a big thing in the present days. He had chuckled that it probably wasn't as big as it was in "his day", but he had taken the wallet. He pulled the wallet out and showed the driver's license to the vicar. The face on the card and the face before him looked to be the same, though—if the man had looked extremely close—he might have noticed that the face before him was about seven years older than the one in the photo. And, of course, the one in the photo didn't have a mustache.
Were the two really one? Heather wondered, even though she was starting to be convinced they were.
The old man took the proffered I.D. and gasped, more in awe than to the young couple, "December 14, 1975! Just like on the tombstone!" He looked up at Garison and asked, again, "Are you really him? Garison Fitch?"
"I really am," Garison smiled with a nervous sigh. "Do you know of the letter?"
The vicar returned the license and said, "Do I know? Every vicar who has ever served this parish knows that story." He started to turn, then turned back and said, "I must ask you a question, though. What did you wear for your wedding?"
Garison smiled, realizing Sarah's attempt at identification, and replied, "A leather jacket."
The vicar smiled widely
and motioned for them to sit down and, after taking a seat himself, began to relate, "In 1786, Sarah Fitch—who was not a member here as I understand it, which made it that much more odd—came to the head vicar and gave him a letter saying she wanted him to hold onto it until the right person came for it. When he asked when this person would come, she told him it would be in the first years of the twenty-first century, probably the year 2005. He, of course, thought her daft, but he did not deny her request. While not of our faith, she was known as a woman of God around town and highly respected. She had even donated food to families of this congregation who were in need. She apparently had invested the money her husband—you—had made quite wisely." He paused and shook his head, "Pardon me if I occasionally stop to marvel that you've finally come."
"No problem," Garison replied with a wave of his hand, "I've been marveling about it myself for almost a week now." Inwardly he was anxious to get to the letter.
The vicar continued, "That vicar put the letter in a little wooden box and left directions that each vicar who followed him was to hold that letter until the right person came for it in the right year—and knew the answer to the question. The name Garison Fitch has been a great secret since the day Sarah uttered it to us. And it has been passed down faithfully."
"Great secret?" Heather injected.
"Oh yes. That first vicar started the precedent of keeping the name a secret because he didn't want just some person who had heard the name to come in and claim the letter. Plus, Sarah was very adamant that you wouldn't come before this decade, so we were not going to hand it out early to just anyone. Its contents were not known and it was speculated that they might be of some value. It has been so long since the letter was mentioned—even between us workers—that I believe it was all but forgotten. It has been years since I heard the story mentioned and I had passed it on myself several years ago when I had a bout of angina that I feared would take my life. Since then, I know of no mention of the story, though the man I told it to is senior vicar here now and may have told it to someone he thought would succeed him. I guess we must not have believed the story or we would have expected you to come in these next few years—or this very year, actually. Shows a surprising lack of faith, doesn't it?"
The Legend of Garison Fitch (Book 1): First Time Page 34
