by Bill Russo
‘The tree was even older than Boston, which is one of the most ancient cities in the nation. It was settled in 1630, when a group of Puritans left the little village of Plymouth in favor of the location that would come to be known as ‘The Athens of America’.
‘Sitting under the tree, surrounded by the sturdy wrought iron fence, I felt the best I had since being re-born without a memory, some weeks before in Boston University Hospital.’
‘My Russo friends, this story is becoming far too long and more detailed than I had intended. Let me wrap up by saying that I lived under the protection of The Great Elm for 11 days. I slept under her arms during the dark night and sat at her feet by the day’s light.’
‘Nuts and stale bread thrown for the pigeons and squirrels were my main source of food. Water and the dregs of abandoned cartons of coffee were my drinks. At lunch time the business men lounged in the sun at the park with containers of five cent coffee purchased at the Washington Street Automat. Sometimes lady fortune would direct me to a bench where an abandoned cup was more than half full! ’
‘On the twelfth day the sun was especially warm and I was certain that something good was about to happen. A strange looking figure, dressed entirely in black, sat down next to me.’
‘He began asking me questions. He seemed familiar although I was sure I had not met him before. He seemed to be very old, yet moved and spoke like a much younger man. After a time, he reached into his coat and withdrew a pile of currency. He handed it to me and said that there was enough money for food and lodging for a month, and some extra cash to put into the stock market.’
‘I think I’d rather put the money towards more time at the inn, and more food, rather than gamble on an uncertainty like the stock market,” I said to him.
He shook his head no, and replied, “Food that you buy, and shelter that you rent are like the leaves on The Great Elm above us. They last only for a short season and then they blow away. If you invest the money, using your second sight, you will have a tree of money that will never be bare of leaves.”
‘As soon as he said it, I had a vision of a petroleum stock that I knew would split five times in the space of a single month. Somehow, I just knew it. I thanked the shadowy man in black and asked him how I could ever repay him.’
“You pay me back by helping others as I have helped you,” he replied.’
‘After speaking those words, the figure in black departed and I never saw him again. I followed up on my stock tip and kept churning the profits on a daily basis. At the end of the month I had amassed an amount of cash equal to what a dozen factory men would earn in a year. Every month my portfolio doubled until it became a fortune and I stopped investing, except for the occasional times when I need extra money.’
‘The curse/blessing of the second sight also is what told me to contact you, the Russo Brothers of Beverly, Massachusetts. As to how you can pay me back, I will repeat the words of my mentor - pay me back by helping others as I have helped you.’
‘One other thing before I’m through,
And: Carmine this advice is for you!
Do not judge by hair color or face,
we are all of a single, human race.
Help people whenever you can,
even if not of your E-I-E-I-O clan.’
‘Remember this, all of you. Helping people that you don’t even know, and thinking of the greater good of the whole race, is both what makes us human and what keeps us human.’
‘I hope someday that I can meet the Russo family in person, although I fear that John Deer will go to Provincetown and will not come out alive.’
“That’s it boys,” said Jim Davis. “That’s the whole letter he left for you. Now you know exactly as much about John Deer as I do.
Chapter Eight:
Through the Arboreal Arch
After putting Jim Davis in charge of the glassworks and contacting the Russo brothers, John Deer boarded the Cape Cod Railroad’s first run of the day, not knowing his next destination. Of the 22 stations on the 64 mile main line from Bourne to Provincetown; Sandwich was only the fifth. He doubted that he had sufficient strength to get off at each of the remaining seventeen.
The belching, roaring parade of iron suspended above massive steel wheels, neared West Barnstable. He felt no headaches. No tremors, no compulsion to leave the comfort of the coach. The same was true at the next several points on the route, Pond Village, Barnstable, Yarmouth, and Bass River.
Approaching South Dennis, the 12th station, about halfway half way to the end of the line; the tremors started. The pulsing at the split in his skull began tapping a steady beat against his brain, sending out a message that the Mid Cape village where the cranberry industry was born was to be the site of his next mission.
The attack of the blessing/curse was milder than usual. His vision remained largely clear. There were no tremors in his limbs. He was able to think in layers, the first layer being the reality of the present. He was fully aware that he was riding in the passenger coach and chatting with a cranberry farmer on the way to one of his bogs.
On another plane entirely, he was experiencing visions. Though he was looking at and speaking with the Dennis man, at the same time he saw himself walking along the Old King’s Highway. The vision became more vivid. He watched himself duck off the main roadway into a dense thicket that looked like a tunnel made of brush, bushes, and trees – an arboreal arch. He continued walking for some distance until he arrived at a stand of Hemlocks that seemed to be guarding something he could not distinguish. The silent wooden soldiers stood tall and proud, as if they were protecting a fortress of ancient secrets.
Bill Russo Photo
The mighty six car combination ground to a reluctant, noisy halt at the small South Dennis terminal on Main Street, near the Town Hall. He said goodbye to the cranberry grower and got off the train.
His latest attack of second sight had been so moderate, that he didn’t have to find the solace and support of a soft bed at an inn, as he was often forced to do. Instead, he set off to fulfill whatever task he might find along the hilly, twisting route of the Old King’s Highway in North Dennis.
At a stable near the town offices he enquired about renting a horse and buggy.
“I got one you can take, but most people nowadays are hiring automobiles instead of ‘hosses’,” said the owner, Albert Crosby. “I can give you a nice Tin Lizzie for only two dollars a day. It’ll get you to the bay side of town in less than a half hour.”
“That sounds good,” agreed John Deer, but I don’t know how to operate an automobile and I don’t wish to learn. Do you have someone who could pilot it for me? I’m willing to pay well for the service.”
“It’s a slow day and my son who works for me doesn’t have much to do right now. Make it two for the car and another two dollars for him.”
John agreed and was soon bumping along Old Bass River Road at 20 miles per hour, with Albert Junior operating the machine.
“Where to Mr. Deer?”
“I’m not sure Albert. I mean, I know where I want to go but I don’t know the names of the roads. Just keep going straight and I’ll tell you when to turn.”
Like an old farmer grasping a well worn dousing rod and following its prompts toward water, the twinges behind the long scar above John Deer’s eyebrow guided him to the water he was seeking – a hundred acre pond shaped just like a fish.
“I’m going to be here for some time Albert,” he said when he saw a hand-painted wooden sign in the shape of an arrow pointing towards the lake. “Here’s an extra three dollars for your excellent piloting of the Model T. It was an experience I’ll remember and it was only the third or fourth time I have ridden on a motor car.”
With no twinges, tremors, or ‘headquakes’ to slow him down, John Deer strode happily towards the arboreal arch. From above, the entryway to the lake was bathed in sunlight; but the heavy canopy of brush and trees allo
wed few of the rays to penetrate within. Because of the heavy, green shroud, the interior of the living tunnel should have been darker than evening twilight. But the pathway was lit, illuminated from within by a cheery, bright glow of unknown origin. It drew him forward. He passed by the graceful stand of Hemlocks and made his way to a ridge, thick with scrub pines and wild roses.
Pushing aside a curtain of dense foliage, he saw that at the bottom of the cliff was the lake he was searching for – the crystal clear pond of a hundred acres, whose outline was a perfect representation of a fish!
Photo, copyright Bill Russo
Scargo Lake - separated from Cape Cod Bay by a narrow stand of trees and sand. Photo, copyright by Bill Russo
For seven days and seven nights he stayed there, in the most serene and nourishing place that he had ever been. By day he berry picked and drank pond water. At night his blanket was an aromatic layer of fallen pine boughs.
Sometimes in the darkest part of the pre dawn, the blessing/curse visited him. Yet the headquakes, the shakes, and tremors were less than they had been. It was as if he was getting used to the volcanic actions swirling through his brain. The second sight was coming much easier to him than it had during the times he had been prostrated for 48 hours straight.
On the morning of the eighth day he left the living tunnel and walked to North Dennis Village, where he found a restaurant, and ordered his customary coffee with no sugar and unbuttered bread.
After his sparse meal he set off for the village post office which was also a mercantile store. He purchased writing paper, a pen, and a bottle of ink. Slowly, he walked back to the Arboreal Arch and once again entered his quiet place.
The mysterious figure in black spent the next several hours composing a letter to Emily Rapport - the first true love of his seven years of life as a man named John Deer.
Chapter Nine:
Boston Girls, Boston Braves, and Boston Red Sox
The Huntington School for Girls occupied most of the fourth floor of the Boston Red Sox Administration building. The spacious seven story brick building was across the street from the team’s playing field, the Huntington Avenue Grounds.
The young ladies of the Huntington School were very interested in baseball – or to be more accurate, their attention was focused on the brash young men who played America’s favorite sport. From April through October there were plenty of ballplayers to be found in the third floor public cafeteria of their building.
It was not unusual to see as many as a dozen or more professional athletes in the food line any day during the season. Not only did the Red Sox toil within a few yards of the school; but the Braves, Boston’s other major league team, played their home games nearby - just across the railroad tracks, in the South End Grounds.
When Miss Emily Rapport began her career as a rookie History teacher in the private preparatory school in 1903, she attended dozens of Red Sox games. Along with many of the other teachers and most of the 200 students of the school, she sometimes considered setting her cap for a ball player.
She was in the stands for quite a few of Cy Young’s 28 wins as led the Red Sox to the 1903 American League Championship. She saw him pitch the first perfect game in league history.
She and her group were thrilled as they sat in their seats for the 1903 World Series pitting the Pittsburgh Pirates against the hometown Red Sox.
“Miss Rapport,” asked Jenny Martin, a promising Sophomore English Literature student, “have the Sox got a chance against the mighty Pirates?”
“Of course they do,” replied her teacher. “The Pirates have won three straight National League Championships and their shortstop, Honus Wagner, is the best to ever play the game; but we have Cy Young, who I believe will become the best pitcher in history.”
She was right of course, Young won two games, and assisted by hurler Bill Dineen, he led the Boston Red Sox to the championship, winning the series five games to three. Young would go on to 511 victories – the most ever for any baseball pitcher.
Many years later, Emily was asked about Cy Young’s legendary fast ball.
“There was no way to measure the speed of a pitch back in 1903. As to how hard he threw, I can only say this. The catcher who stood behind home plate on a day that Young was pitching, had to put a slab of beefsteak in his glove to soften the impact. And by the end of the contest that slab of meat was about as thick as a piece of paper! Cy Young was the only pitcher whose speed and power required the meat protector.”
Those comments were made, of course, in her retirement years, many decades after she was a promising young instructor at the private Boston school. She rose rapidly in rank and esteem and in just six years was made the director of the institution – the first woman to be appointed to the post.
On Wednesday, October 5, 1910, the day when she would receive John’s letter, the school year was well underway. There was no distraction of post-season baseball; for the Red Sox season had ended with them picking up just 81 wins leaving them in fourth place. The Braves, Boston’s first major league club, were even worse, winning only 51 games and falling to last place in the National League.
At noon, as customary Miss Emily Rapport and her second in command, Miss Martha Dawson took lunch in the third floor cafeteria. They got in the line that formed in front of the busy food counter and selected mostly fruits and vegetables from the dozens of choices available.
They took their trays to a private dining room reserved for school faculty. During most of the day they were fully occupied with the affairs of the school, but at lunch, school business was a forbidden topic. Girl talk. Discussion of the news of the times and such, were the subjects of their noon time chats.
“How’s that handsome boyfriend of yours Martha?”
“Teddy Weston is a keeper Emily. Last night he brought me roses and he gave my dad a box of cigars! Is it any wonder my father loves him more than I do?”
They both laughed as they thought about the large, but shy young man who had been dating Martha for three months without even trying to get to second base.
“It’s not that he doesn’t want to,” Martha told her friend, “but he’s such a gentleman that he’s never going to try it unless I come right out and tell him to do it!”
“Marry this guy,” advised Emily, “it’s a cinch he won’t mind you wearing the pants in the family.”
“No ‘Em. He’s not a wimp. The guy is just kind of old fashioned. He really is a gentle giant. And speaking of guys, what about yours?”
“I haven’t heard a word in over a week, but that’s not unusual. He’s got some very important things to do. I’m hoping he’ll be free by Christmas.”
“I hope so to for your sake. Say, did you hear about Lucy Taylor?”
“Yes she passed away, but she made it to 77 and that’s a pretty good run. She was the first woman dentist. She earned her degree in the 1870s, I think it was. Why don’t we put together a tribute for her at the next assembly?”
“Great idea boss. I’ll do some research and we’ll do it up right. Since Lucy became Doctor Taylor, more than 2000 other women have taken dental degrees.
Perhaps we will produce a few more lady dentists from this year’s crop of seniors.”
Emily and Martha were interrupted by Janet Myers, Emily’s secretary, who burst into the dining room waving a white piece of paper as if she were trying to put out a raging fire.
“Miss Rapport. It’s from him! He’s written to you! It’s a letter from Mr. Deer!”
As a test of her willpower Emily took the envelope and put it in her purse, vowing to keep it there until suppertime, when she would read it at home.
Chapter Ten:
A Billet-doux and a Haunting too!
Though it was burning a hole in her handbag, Emily didn’t touch John’s letter until she got home, when she immediately tore it open and began reading….
From John Deer,
Cape Cod, U.S.A.
October 3, 1910
Miss Emily Rapport
Huntington School for Girls
4362 Huntington Avenue,
Boston, Massachusetts
My Dearest Emily,
To start this letter is easy.
Hello darling. I love you and I want to be with you!
I trust that you are well and radiantly beautiful as usual. I’m sure that I’m correct, for if not, the blessing and curse of my second sight would have warned me by banging my head like a church bell. I promise that I will telephone you next week and we’ll talk in person.
That’s the easy part. To go further is much more difficult, but I’ll try.
There is some good news. I’m halfway to the end of the earth! I’m in Dennis Village which is the mid-point of Cape Cod. The end, one way or the other, is almost in sight. I dare not hope that I’ll find no trouble in Provincetown. The key to the mystery of what happened to me lies there. I do have a bit of hope that something in the city will unlock a door to my mind and permit me to come to Boston, where I’m going to ask you to marry me.
When I left Sandwich I passed right by several communities with no headquakes and no compunction to get off the train for some sort of a mission. As I approached Dennis though, I knew I had to stop there but I didn’t know what was waiting for me.
After a week here, I now have a good idea of what lies ahead and I’ll tell you about it - though what I am going to say pushes against the boundaries of credibility. I am experiencing it and I’m not even sure I believe what is happening. Whether it is real or fancy, I must play this hand that I’ve been dealt.
While I was talking to a cranberry grower on the train, I started to have visions of a place that, as far as I know, I’ve never been to. Without knowing where it was, I was guided to the place by the ‘second sight’.
