Dear friends,

I must beg your indulgence yet another time – in this instance for troubling you so soon after my last message rather than for too long a span between these missives.

I informed Mr Oldman that his latest effort had been published, as per his request, but was dismayed to learn that he sent several more poems along which were unaccountably mislaid in transit. So, as you might imagine, several exchanges transpired by phone and via the internets, and the situation was soon remedied. Better late, as I always say, than never. So without further ado, an errant work from D.T. along with an explanatory note from Leo. Of this latter young man -- I strongly encourage his literary endeavors, as the apple clearly has not fallen far from the tree insofar as his interest and native ability so clearly parallels that of his beloved Uncle Tybalt.

Forthwith, then. First a note, and then a poem:

**

Hay albert

here is the poems that went mssing sorry they must have fell out in the truck and anyway Ty didn’t seem none too sure about this Fairweather person whether he knew her or not, and I couldn’t dislodge from his head that her first name weren’t heather. As a consequence he apparently worked quite a bit to strike a cordial tone without suggesting too much familiarity with the mention of leather xsetera. b ut there is only so many words that rime with weather. Though as we know he can be quite a imaginative fellow as with them ones he wrote about that cougar lady a wile back. But as you said it may be best to spare them poems of that nature for a second volume markeded for adults only.

This here poem is for Miss Heather,
Who some folks refer to as Fairweather.
And she’s wonderful whether
She’s wearing some sneakers or shoes of leather.
And in her hat she might wear a feather.

And I hear tell her last name is Lewis,
Of an old family who used to knew us,
And they always would how-do-you-do us
When ever they chanced for to … {I can’t read this]
Some say they was from St. Loius.

Ty also says to say hello to Sadie if she stops through again and to Roscoe if he is the one who we think he is but he would have to look over them tatoos probably to be certain as it has been quite a number of years and folks change so.

Yours truly,
Leopold.

**

If you would indulge me but a little longer – Here Mr Oldman seems to have regained for a moment some of his finely-wrought powers of description that so earned him such accolades over the years. The very tentativeness of this endeavor is so very touching yet at once earnest; he starts, as ever, with his invocation, calling up the spirit, as it were, of this person he but scarcely knows yet wishes to know better…He is curious; he must fall back on reputation, as in “Some folks say…”; then on to a head-to-toe description of this new idol. And then, the mystery continues and the intrigue grows! A last name, a possible family connection and the suggestion of an old cordial relationship so much beloved in Southern culture; “almost family” as they say. And he ends in a final note of mystery; he must resort again to hear-say in that final cadence – “from St. Loius” [sic]. How the mis-spelling of that city of mystery reflects his inner turmoil, the longing of the "I" to be “us”! Was ever the genius of Durwood Tybalt Oldman so casually, yet so eloquently, on display?

Though several other poems were included, I think it best to hold those in reserve for another time. Such delicacies can not, should not! be scattered as pebbles on the beach.

I cannot overstate the value of these late literary endeavors by Mr Oldman, whose delicate health, though on the mend for the moment, may yet fall into a sharp decline as a consequence of his long and difficult life. Some talk is underway, as I believe I mentioned in my last accounting, of assembling of some bound volume of his finest works in a limited edition. Please, please! Do not hesitate in ordering your own personal copy, with a personal inscription by Mr Oldman himself for those who place their orders before this work goes to press. Do not delay!

And on that note I bid you adieu, or, to borrow a phrase from the delightful Miss Fairweather, “Fare thee Well!!”

I remain,
Your humble servant,

Albert Banfill

Greetings to you all!

Again, dear friends, I must beg your pardon and indulgence for my being so long with an update. It has been very busy! And I am pleased to inform you that the promotion has come through and I am enjoying a schedule of increased duration and responsibility, with an increase in compensation commensurate, of course, with all of these. More of that to follow.

My delay in writing you comes in part due to some misdirected communications from our old friend Mr Oldman. His nephew, Leopold, reportedly recorded quite a lengthy conversation with him, filled with remarkable and enchanting tales of his former life on the road. However, some aspect of those accounts seem to have attracted the attention of the constabulary, and they impounded the recording pending further review. So I am left with a second-hand account from Leo, accompanied by what is reputed to be a bit of original poetry from D. T. I fear I can make little of this latter, but his most attentive nephew attempted to clarify some small parts of it and to him I am most grateful.

The work is apparently in response to a correspondent, a Miss Annie Mollie, who seems to remember D. T. in some particulars. As his present incarceration, in every way a difficult time for him, has been further troubled by a steady parade of former and present wives “come to collect,” he seemed particularly gratified that he is remembered with some affection by a female somewhere in the wide world. Miss A. M. mentions also some exchange Mr Oldman had concerning a local waitress and her less-than-enthused male companion. I think forthwith it is best to note that, in the course of Mr Oldman’s long and adventurous career and many travels, such encounters might be numbered as the leaves on the forest floor. Which is to say, one cannot state with certainty whether or no he actually recalls this particular encounter or has conflated it with any number of others. He did mention “the old Milwaukee Central” in connection with his reminiscence, if that offers any consolation. And of Miss M’s errant cookware, I cannot dismiss out of hand whether D. T. may have borrowed it in the course of his travels, but due to his unfortunate circumstances has not had opportunity to return it. He is quite particular to use only copper cookware in his culinary extravaganzas, proclaiming without hesitation that stainless or aluminum adds a disagreeable taste to the final product. He has also mentioned in passing that old stoneware crocks are much to be preferred in the preparatory stages, though these are becoming increasingly difficult to acquire and he has often had to settle for large plastic barrels when these are available.

But I digress. To the poetry!:

“This poem is for the most enchanting Annie,
Who is sweet from her head to her fannie.
Any one who don’t love her, well that man he,
Should ought to have his head.. [illegible. Neither Leon nor I can reconstruct a rhyme.]

And her second name I hear is Molly,
To which I can only say good golly!
It would certainly be quite a folly,
Not to take advantage if you catch her under the holly.”

Such is a quintessential example of the poetry of D. Tybalt Oldman – less than technically profient, one must admit, but nevertheless all the more charming for those “beauty marks” that lend it its particular grace. Were there interest in assembling a limited-edition bound volume of his works, I would certainly lend my every assistance to putting such an endeavor in order. And I’m quite certain that D. T. would be pleased to inscribe his personal dedications to those who make advance deposits on this volume, which will surely be treasured by friends and family forever.

But I am sorry to state that other duties interfere with further thoughts for this day; I will endeavor to provide further details on my own adventures – which are, I might add, not without their own interest – as time permits.

For the nonce, then, I remain,

Your humble servant,

Albert Banfill

Belatedly… recovering from Sadie’s visit and a mild flu and a bout of unseasonably cold rainy weather and some very busy weeks at my several jobs. So a few days were made tolerable by some roads trip to various agencies with a lot of driving for a little face-to-face, some paperwork, some conversation, some get in the car and do it again. But it was a chance to drive some old roads and see things I haven’t seen before, or see again some bits and pieces of the world another time before they slip away.

I’m always fascinated by the deep history of this place where the glaciers made a final stand ten thousand years ago, retreated north, ironically and invisibly gather now for their next push. They always return. In a half-minute of driving you pass from the rolling farmland into the harder Appalachian ridges, sometimes quite literally just around a corner. The transition can be slow to register unless you actively watch for it. When I was a kid on the occasional family trip, it always caught be by surprise. “Hey, we’re in the mountains!”

Sometimes I cross the Kinzua Reservoir on the upper reaches on the Allegheny. Almost fifty years after the fact, the dam and reservoir, the displacement of an ancient Indian cemetary, the breaking of a treaty signed by George Washington, is still a bitter pill among the Senecas. Whites also speak with sadness of the lost valley, of the change for the worse of travel thru the region, the severing of farms and families and dirt roads to spots where blackberries grew tall. The broad valley is now flooded most of the year; a beautiful lake, certainly, though in dry seasons it gives way to grass, mud, stagnating pools of dying fish. The old railroad right-of-way Leon joked about is drowned for most of the journey from Warren PA to Salamanca NY, but it still pokes its head out in the northern reaches, only to be buried, for the most part, by the later interstate highway.

I stop for the cheap gasoline on the reservation. The self-described “fat old Swede” who works there tends the pumps and offers small talk. He has a white beard but no mustache and looks like a slacker Santa Claus. The Seneca reservation abuts an Amish community on its western edge; in local diners one can look into the kitchen and see Indian cooks flirting with Amish waitresses. What do they talk about, I wonder. What novelist could spin a tale of some young romance developing across the xenophobic cultures clinging to their separate old ways?

The Allegheny bends west and the interstate follows on its south shore. Across the braided river lies a long stretch of reservation and the abandoned old main road. An occasional building is seen on the flats, and clouds of smoke issue from burning fields every spring. Though the boundaries are poorly marked when they’re marked at all, non-natives are not welcome there.

The Senecas’ place in the Iroquoian confederacy is “Keepers of the Western Door.” Such poetic titles once were attached to myths, and myths attached to specific objects. Does anyone now know where, or what, is the western door, or where must one stand to see it? Has it been drowned by the reservoir or buried under concrete? Once every ridge had a story, every drowned stream a name. I can invent a bit of romantic nonsense to fill the void, but it’s not the same. Looking east down the broad valley from Steamburg, the distant ridges take on the profile of a fat man, or a pregnant woman. Behind me stands a chunk of an old ridge isolated when the ur-Allegheny, its northern path dammed by ice, carved a new channel. From the proper vantages on the river the westering sun slips behind it at solstices and equinox, creating a natural calendar for those with the patience to mark its passage.

That crazy Sadie and her talk of Lilydale prompted these musings, I suppose. I am spiritually bipolar, and she triggered a shift. I am familiar with the Spiritualists, done circles with Indians and neo-pagans, been inside enough churches to guess what goes by looking at the name over the door. This was the scorched land, the burnt-over ground of the 1800s, so named for the flame-throwing preachers and rampant religious innovation. Most every flavor of religious endeavor has been tried here, a few were invented here. Most still remain in one form or another.

What makes a place sacred? This country is beautiful in every season but its meaning, its power, seems gone out from it. Or is it just me? I struggle for terms to describe the feeling. “Vacated,” perhaps, in the legal sense, or “evacuated,” as they say in medicine, describing the thing by what is no longer there. Though the reservoir is replenished in this season, the region feels drained, spiritually drained, like a failing church whose congregation has slipped away.

More stops, more papers, a return to the daily grind. Albert, who considers a trip to the salad bar a “nature walk,” is suddenly quite keen to spend time on the borderland. I find him some days in the public library pouring over old maps. He convinced a librarian to download huge files from the Smithsonian collection, and chewed up most of the disk on a public terminal. His new route takes him several times a week to Salamanca and the casino there, though he’s not permitted to enter. Wouldn’t I like to explore some old roads, some old narrow-gauge logging railroads thru the hills? I suppose I would, though I suspect his motives. But the Native’s great north-south superhighway from Nova Scotia to Florida passed through this place, through tracts now remarkably untouched by the Europeans. Perhaps we are both treasure seekers.

Mr. Oldman, whose health is apparently improving, sent a recorded message (thanks to Leo for passing this along). I transcribed it to the best of my ability.
G.

Howdy everyone and kindest regards to you all and hoping you are well. I’m feeling much better now but let me tell you stay away from any prison brew that some polecat may offer you cause the doctors say I probably hit into some wood alcohol or antifreeze or some such concoction that about kilt my liver and my eyes still ain’t right and maybe never will be. So I expect I shoulda stayed clear of that stuff that about done me in and let that be a warning to you all.

So you probably know I’m still in the stir and no clear idea of when I’ll get out thanks to that so-called indeterminate sentence due to lots of mischief before I landed here and a bit more after and an exwife or more putting their two cents into the bargain. But at least I’m feeling a bit better and warn’t out scratching for a living over the winter.

And I just want you to know that I didn’t realize I were in Texas when they found me and I told them boys Rod and Red to get rid of that old boiler and to sell it while the price of copper was up or put it on that ebay or something, I told them that flat out, and specially don’t go transporting it halfway across country in case someone should take a legal interest in what you got in the trunk, which happens oftener than you’d expect except with them Ruffensor boys cause they been trouble looking for a home from the day they was born, the older ones I mean (not you, Leon). And they can’t keep off the gas and can’t keep their traps shut when they manage to draw the attention of the state troopers who are only doing their jobs and in particular I mean the fine law enforcement professionals in the State of Texas.

But anyway I said to them nephews to leave that old stuff well enough alone it was on that knob where local folks know better than to sniff around and there ain’t no reason for any outsiders to be poking around anyhow. But you know them maroons they do just exact contrary to whatever anyone with a lick of sense tells them they ought to just to be cantankerous. So when I tells them to get rid of that thing or just leave it out of sight why they says no, we gotta make another batch in memory of granddad it was his and all. Not that they ever gave a spit when it came to pissing away or selling anything else he left to them idjuts for a nickel. Why now that I think on it they lost their paw’s place a year or so back to the sheriff’s auction but managed to keep the buyers off for a while with one thing or another, mostly another.

But then the marshalls came around to settle up once and for all and they managed to get the goods out of there who knows how and stored it away and got a wild hair on that they would move it out to a place I kept in Oklahoma. At least I thought it was Oklahoma I just took folks’ word but it was a nice quiet spot on the Red River that another traveller told me about it years ago and I took to stopping off there between one place and another but them boys decided that that would be a good place to set up shop as it was quiet and a far piece from anybody and corn comes pretty easy around them parts like they say in that show that Ado Annie’s in so unbeknownst to me they transported my cookwares west from Kentucky and set up to make a batch in the midst of this little oxbow but word got out or the smell got out or what have you and they vacated just as I arrived and I’ll be danged if it weren’t Texas rangers cause the river changed course some time back but the state boundaries stayed the same I learned to my regret, and them rangers and I we was acquainted from some episodes going back forrty years and more, the details of which I will spare you for another time.

So there I was at a most inopportune time on the wrong side of the Texas border with the still just cooling down from a batch, and a dozen or so of the state’s finest come out of the brush and they wasn’t looking for a taste neither. And the rest so they say is history.

So for them that’s been asking that there’s the whole tale to the best of my recollection which admittedly comes and goes so I ain’t saying its gospel truth but it’s the best I can manage for today, and Leon had to help some to get things pieced together this much in my head.

And best regards to you all and thank you for your kind letters and if you have a notion why please write to the governor and ask that he might consider a pardon for an old man who learned his lesson this time and I mean that for sure.

(D. Tybalt Oldman)

Hello, Dear Friends!

You shall, I hope, all be pleased to learn of my impending promotion in the transportation business. Or so the suggestion has been made. More news, I sincerely hope, in the next missive.

A most delightful visit was had with Miss Sadie and her friend Roscoe this weekend past. I was but barely acquainted with Miss S., but my reputation seems to have preceeded her visit, as she was quite informed of my various business ventures over the years. Roscoe and I, it seems, also have some mutual acquaintances, so the conversation seldom lagged for want of topics.

Their precise mission in our little neck of the woods was something of a mystery, though I gained the impression that the proximity of the Canadian border may have played into their plans. There was talk of some explorer whose acquaintance they craved, north of the border, and some indecipherable mentions of sherry and moonstones and whatnot that I simply did not follow. I thought it quite curious that they should be reportedly in or anticipating a visit to Tijuana one day, according to usually reliable Miss Fairweather, yet they precipitously arrive in Buffalo very shortly thereafter, as these locales are hardly contingent, and the timeline of their travels wanted of consistency.

Rod, or Roscoe, as he seems to be called of late, seemed rather curious about some of the locales mentioned in the missive his sibling, young Leon, posted just a few days since. D.T., of course, has had a decades-long association with railroads and rail travel, though I don’t know that Rod ever participated in those ventures. But then again, I know so very little about Rod, so perhaps it is merely a bit of curious interest in his Uncle Ty’s many travels. But then again, idle curiousity is not among the traits of that family.

Sadie seemed quite keen to begin a venture associated with her skills as a psychic, one that would additionally support her love of travel and by which she could regularly meet with her many adoring acolytes. I offered my wholehearted support to this venture but, alas, due to the current terms of my legal situation, I cannot participate in any direct involvement in startup ventures, and most particularly those associated with the internets. However, if any farsighted souls with an interest in expanding theirs – indeed, the worlds! -- spiritual horizons were to make available some small funds in the interest of this venture, I would certainly lend my every legally permissible energy to the advancement of her mission.

I remain, your humble servant,

Albert Banfill