Roxie Part 2

Feeling beaten to a pulp, I stand brushing my teeth with an electronic device. Every muscle aches. Wait. What? Where are my dentures?

I stick my hand inside my mouth and feel my gums. Yes, teeth are there. I look into the mirror. Wait. What? Where are my bifocals?

I look around the room. It seems like my bathroom, yet it doesn’t. The countertop is almost bare, yet my artworks are on its walls. I open the cabinet where I keep my medicinals. It is empty.

I hear a mechanical voice from nearby. “What’s taking you so long? Don’t make me come in there.”

I recognize it as the hated robot and don’t want to be punished. I hurry to wash my face, then can’t help staring at my corn-silk hair, which looks similar to what Mia Farrow wore in the 60s. My mass of gray snarls gone. I marvel that I appear to be 16 or so. It doesn’t make sense. When I was that age, I wore coke-bottle glasses! This figure is lush and not at all pudgy.

At last, I open the door. Roxie blocks my way. “Lord, took you long enough to do your ablutions, you silly git.” Her machinery whirls, emitting bleeps and blips. “Why they chose you for cryogenics is beyond me. You must go to sleep, so the process can be completed and updated. You haven’t stabilized to the year 2050 yet.”

I do my best to ignore the robot as I get out shorts and a tee. Wait. What? 2050! That can’t be right. It would mean I’m 98 years old. I feel a stinging stab to my hip before I pull on the shorts.

Roxie has turned back the bed covers and motions to me. What?! 2050. I’m 98…98…98! Zzz.

Fear of Flying

I confess I have a fear of flying. I don’t mean anything like Erica Jong’s novel of sexual boredom! I didn’t always have this fear and can remember how excited I was the first time I boarded an airplane at O’Hare. My girlfriend Vickie wanted the window seat. That was fine by me because I disliked heights.

Our Boeing 707 flight into Miami was without problems. We then were directed to walk across the tarmac to board the one owned by Out Island Airways. This plane was so small, there were only twelve passenger seats. The stewardess told us to keep our seat belts fastened because we would encounter turbulence. After taking off, the ship shuddered, shook, and went up and down, worse than any roller coaster ride. Vickie prayed out loud that we would safely reach the Bahamas.

It was certainly scary, but this didn’t bother me enough that I wouldn’t fly again. Our trip back to Miami was smooth. On our return trip to Chicago, we had a two-hour layover in Atlanta.

The TV news reported on crashed flights and on planes which disappeared and were never found. This was normal.

During the next several decades, I flew into Phoenix twice. No problems going or returning. No suitcases were lost.

Flying into Oakland to visit my brother was okay. Coming back was another story. Once we boarded, the plane taxied onto the runway, where we sat for several hours. Our direct flight to Chicago, ended up being directed into Denver for refueling. We arrived at O’Hare five hours later than we should have. This wasn’t something unusual.

The horrific events of 911 were certainly extraordinary. Certainly not normal for a plane to be treated like a guided missile. I didn’t find this off-putting.

I can hear you asking, “Why are you so fearful of flying?”

It’s because I’ve watched too many episodes of Dr. G Medical Examiner. So many older people have died after spending hours in an airplane. A few days after they arrived at their destination, they suddenly died of coronary thrombosis. Stuck on a long flight, you cannot get up and walk around.

This is the reason I decided to drive to Ohio and back. With my fourth novel unfinished, I didn’t want to risk it. Driving the 3800 miles, I could get out and stretch. I could also get iced mocha coffee anytime I wanted.

At this stage in my life, I wouldn’t board any airplane. Not even for a million bucks!

Vacation

Though I was 17, I had never gone on a true vacation. I had been to Illinois, Missouri, and Michigan because relatives lived there. I didn’t think those counted. Sleeping in your cousin’s bed didn’t compare to spending a night in a motel or hotel.

Now I would be traveling through many states. This was thanks to our neighbors, the Lavendas. Their adopted daughter Marsha had become my best friend after my family moved here three years ago.

Joe was a bank vice-president. Rita a stay-at-home Mom. They spent three weeks in Wyoming every summer.

I was so excited to be invited to join them! I splurged on a new swimsuit. It was a baby-doll style that looked like a two piece from the rear. It was navy blue with white daisies sprinkled over it. Most importantly, it hid my nasty stretch marks.

The day before we left, Marsha and I visited the library and borrowed as many books as we could.

Joe loaded suitcases onto a rooftop luggage rack the next morning because the 1968 Buick Electra’s trunk was full. I hugged my mom and siblings, then climbed into the back seat.

Marsha and I chatted for a few minutes, then we opened one of our books. Neither of us liked saying too much in front of parents.

Sitting in the passenger seat, Rita penciled a crossword puzzle, but she often stopped to comment on Joe’s driving as he navigated through Chicago’s traffic. Even though we left early, there was still heavy congestion. She emitted a relieved sigh when we entered the expressway to Wisconsin.

I napped while we traveled north. After all, I’d been too excited to get much sleep, and my alarm went off before dawn. I woke as the car slowed down to enter a HoJo. It felt wonderful to get out and stretch my legs.

Once we ordered, I asked, “Where are we?”

Joe said, “We’re on the outskirts of Rochester, Minnesota. Don’t dawdle eating. I want to make it to Sioux Falls before we stop.”

I had breakfast before 5 am. It was almost 1 pm, so it didn’t take long for me to eat because I was famished! Marsha and I used the restroom before we got back in the Buick.

He stopped at a gas station to fill up, then we were on our way. Joe said, “Roll up those windows to only a crack, we’re getting back on the expressway now.”

After a few minutes watching the landscape, which didn’t look much different than other Midwestern states, I returned to reading.

An hour later, Rita asked, “Would anyone like a peppermint?”

Both of us said, “Yes please.”

Sucking on the candy relieved my thirst. The Independence Day temperature was in the 90s, and their car felt like an oven. We stopped at a drive-thru for supper.

Marsha and I watched for distant fireworks before we stopped for the night. In Sioux Falls, Joe pulled into a Best Western with a lit vacancy sign. After we brought in our luggage, Marsha and I dug out our swimsuits, changed, then ran to the outdoor pool. The water felt so refreshing. Joe and Rita soon joined us, but we didn’t swim for long before they told us to get to bed.

In the morning, we munched on donuts and drank coffee, then carried our luggage back to the Electra. Rita opened a map and directed Joe back to Interstate 90.

We soon left the cornfields behind and entered the Badlands. The land was red and brown, containing many hills where nothing grew. Yet, there was an austere beauty to its desolation.

We ate lunch in Rapid City, then returned to the expressway, which now headed more to the north than west. We crossed into Wyoming and reached the Little Big Horns. Joe’s V8 engine chugged up the switchbacks. To my right was a huge cliff wall. All I could see to the left was sky.

Rita and Joe argued as we reached Buffalo. She wanted him to take Interstate 25 south to Casper, then travel the state highways west. He thought it would be quicker to keep going north until Ranchester. They flipped a coin, and Rita won. We spent an early night at another Best Western when we reached Casper. This city was located on a flat plain just past the mountains.

We ate steaks and baked potatoes in the restaurant. Back in our room, we watched local TV. The news mentioned the launch of Apollo 11 was scheduled at Cape Canaveral but would depend on weather conditions. I asked, “Do you think we’ll land on the moon?”

Joe smiled. “Yes. We’re going to beat those Russians!”

Rita and I won 3 out of 5 cribbage games before we slept.

Since it would take only about 6 hours to reach Jackson Hole, we didn’t have the continental breakfast. Looking over the menu, I asked, “What are hash browns?”

Marsha giggled. “Kinda like French fries but smaller and crispier. You’ll love ‘em.”

She was right. They tasted wonderful.

Somewhere on the highway we stopped for lunch at a Mom and Pop diner. I gaped at cowboys who wore hats, spurs, and guns. I was truly in the West as seen on Gunsmoke.

Rita pointed across the highway as we neared our destination. “That’s the National Elk Preserve.”
Marsha also pointed. “That’s called the ‘Sleeping Indian’. See how it looks like he’s laying down wearing a headdress.”

A few minutes later, Joe turned into the Warm Springs Dude Ranch entrance. He got out and returned with a key. He drove on a dirt road to a log cabin located on a hill. We carried our luggage up the wooden steps to a small porch. Marsha and I retrieved more things while he unlocked the door. This building had a living room, kitchenette, and two bedrooms. Marsha led the way to the one we’d share. After we unpacked, her parents went to buy groceries.

Marsha and I changed into our suits. “You won’t believe how warm the water is!” She laughed. “No need to inch your way in.” She ran down the road to the pool and immediately dove in. I cautiously dipped one foot then jumped in. She was right. It felt glorious. I marveled it was so warm when there was still snow on the nearby majestic Teton peaks. I was very sunburnt by suppertime.

The next morning we went horseback riding. The ranch hand was just a few years older than us, and we outrageously flirted with him. Later, we drove into Jackson Hole. The town square had four archways made of elk horns. Wooden boardwalks fronted buildings on the main streets. One business called Diamond Lil was a steakhouse with entertainment. I splurged on a cowboy hat and bought presents for my family. We stopped at a lovely shop that offered many varieties of custard ice cream. I watched as they added peppermints into the machine then filled my chocolate cone. Outside, a mock stagecoach fight erupted. Eating our treats, we went outdoors to watch.

Two days later, the Bushemi family arrived. The father worked with Joe, and they had two kids. John was my age, Mimi was twelve. He hated being here. “There’s nothing to do. Can’t even get a decent TV or radio station.”

Marsha said, “You’ll get used to it.”

We went fishing on the Snake River. I hated fish, but they insisted I try it. Cooked with butter and lemon in a foil packet, it was so delicious that I had seconds.

We visited two mountain lakes that week. Though these were only a few miles apart, one had green water, the other blue. We rose before dawn to marvel at the Chapel of the Transfiguration, where the dawn brought a halo to the cross.

Most days we remained at the ranch. The weather was pleasant. Afternoons in the 80s, but steam rose from the pool in the mornings. We did a lot of horseback riding and mucking stables. Marsha and I giggled like crazy when we overheard a greenhorn ask to ride a gelded mare.

We also read and went swimming daily. My sunburn peeled, and for the very first time ever I tanned. Even through the white daisies on my suit! One day my strap broke as I dove. After this, the ranch hand always called me the “white-breasted Indian”.

On July 20th, we were glued to the TV set. Marsha and I took turns holding the rabbit ears. Even doing this, the image from the moon scrolled with lines. Joe was upset we couldn’t get better reception. But we clearly heard, “One small step for man…”

To celebrate our victory, Joe took us out for ice cream. I got my fave chocolate peppermint cone. Yum!

We spent the following morning at the laundromat with Rita while Joe went golfing with Mr. Bushemi. The next day, his son John said, “I applied to become a ranch hand. I’ll be back here next summer.”

After loading our luggage, we took a different route home. When we reached Cheyenne, we went south into Colorado, then took I80 east. We spent the night in North Platte, Nebraska. In the morning, the expressway was bordered by many cornfields as we left that state and drove through Iowa. We spent the night in Cedar Rapids, then reached the Chicago outskirts at rush hour. In another two hours, I was home and had traveled through six new states.

Blizzard

All during a late afternoon in early March, Chicago radio station B96 kept interrupting their music to air weather bulletins. They predicted at least six more inches of snow overnight with a possibility of more for Northwest Indiana.

As I sat at my cubicle thinking I should head home soon and not put in overtime tonight, an auditor approached me. “This one must be done tonight.”

I glanced at the time. It was after 4. “Can’t it wait until morning?”

“No.” He quickly turned and walked away.

Muttering curses under my breath, I headed to Bennett’s office. He had become one of the tax partners last year, and I worked under his direction. When I knocked on his doorjamb, he told me to come in.

I looked out his windows at the steadily falling snow and pointed. “Quite a storm out there.”

Bennett nodded. “Been coming down for quite a while. What can I do for you?”

“Ron Harvey just gave me the Wilmont Real Estate partnership return. Said it has to be done tonight, and can’t wait until morning. There’s no way I can get it done before 7, and it’s really storming out there. It’ll be treacherous getting back home to Indiana in this weather. If I stay to do it, will he even be here when it’s done?”

Bennett lifted his receiver and chatted with the auditor. When he hung up, he said, “Ron will be here waiting.”

Cursing all the way back, I slammed the massive proforma onto my desktop. Then I made a fresh pot of coffee. After getting a full cup, I crunched the numbers for every sheet before I entered the input for the tax return. Half an hour later, I hit the computer’s enter button to begin the computation. In the past, this gigantic partnership’s information had been shipped to California to be done on Computax’s mainframe. This was only the second tax season, we had the capability to compute it in-house.

I looked at the time, then called my sister who lived near me. “Martha could you please pick my kids up from the sitter. I can’t leave here for another hour. Yes, I know it’s storming. Oh thank you. I’ll call Celia and tell her you’re coming.”

I viewed the diagnostics on the screen twenty minutes later. There weren’t any keying errors, so I loaded a fresh ream of paper into the printer, then sent the 600+ partners and ten multistate tax return to print.

By the time it finished, everyone on my floor had gone home. When I took it upstairs to the audit department, no one was there! I didn’t bother to mutter my curses. The mildest one was, “Lying sack of shit!”

Back down on my floor, I turned off the coffee pot. At my cubicle, I shut off my computer. I then pulled on my boots, put on my long, goose-filled corduroy coat, then my scarf, gloves, and felt hat. Down on the main level, even the bar was deserted. I had to push extremely hard on the revolving door to get outside. My feet were soon damp because the snow came over my boot tops. Crossing over the bridge for the Chicago River was difficult because a layer of ice was underneath the snow. Past it, a maintenance man was pushing a snow blower. I was thankful for the cleared pathway.

Once I was in my Dodge minivan and had it warming up, I decided to get on the nearest expressway rather than take city backstreets for several miles. The radio station’s latest weather alert had convinced me. I didn’t know it, but boy was I wrong!

Though I had worked in Chicago for a decade, I had seldom been on the Eisenhower Expressway. My wipers were on high, and I could barely see through the white shit that was falling so fast. Knuckles white gripping my steering wheel, I inched my way to it. Soon after entering the on-ramp, I saw a parked vehicle in the right-hand passing lane. The next one was almost hidden on the left shoulder. Towering skyscrapers should have been visible, yet all I could see was a sea of white. Even the concrete meridian was blocked by blowing snow.

The winds whipped up, down, then around on this elevated highway. I reduced my speed to below 20 miles per hour. “Lord, please let me get home to my kids safely tonight.” The next abandoned vehicle was in the middle lane. I looked in the rearview mirror, but it had iced up. I took a deep breath and inched into the left lane, correcting when my van started to skid. I thought about stopping to remove the ice, but I was afraid I’d get stuck. At last, I saw the Dan Ryan sign and made my way onto it.

Here on flat ground, I increased my speed. While the snow came down with intensity, the winds didn’t whip it nearly as much. When a semi passed me, I moved over into its lane to follow it. At a safe distance, I sped up to continue to view its red tail lights. I was happy when it turned onto the Kingery bypass. A mile later, I was on the Bishop Ford freeway. The last major snow hurdle would be making it safely over the steel bridge. When I reached it, my grip tightened on my steering wheel as I ascended. I removed my foot from the gas on the decline, not wanting to brake and go into a skid.

Five miles later, I took the entrance to the Borman Expressway. It was freshly plowed. Ten minutes later, I turned off onto the Indianapolis Boulevard exit, then waited for the light to turn on 175th Avenue. A plow had recently been through, and the city street was relatively clear when I drove past the high school. I inched my way down the alley and slowly drove into my garage. “Thank you Lord!”

Indoors my sister was dozing on my couch. I grabbed a glass of wine then woke her. “Were my kids any problem?”

Martha shook her head. “No. I fed them a frozen pizza then they took their baths. They’re hoping for a snow day tomorrow.”

I laughed. “Doubt it. There’s a lot more snow in Chicago than here for once. My drive was a nightmare until I reached Indiana. Do you want to spend the night?”

“No. I’d better get home to Jerry.”

I hugged her. “Drive safe!”

“I will!”

Comparison

My name is John McIntire. I was born in Virginia in 1759 and received little education as a child. One of my legs was shorter than the other, so I limped as I travelled as an itinerant cobbler. One night while I was drinking whiskey at Zane’s inn in Wheeling, I overheard Ebenezer telling his brothers about a contract awarded to him by our Confederated Congress. This was to layout a trail from Wheeling through Ohio to reach Kentucky. He would receive one-square-mile land tracts at the three river crossings, where he was required to set up a ferry service.

I thought these men were already quite rich with their large land holdings here, and I was looking for the means to improve my situation. Ebenezer’s daughter Sarah was a sweet, innocent 14-year-old girl. Though I was almost age 30, I coaxed her into marrying me. People today would call me a gold digger. As you can imagine, her parents were against our marrying. Ebenezer went hunting, and Mrs. Zane threw her shoe at Sarah during our wedding ceremony.

Her father had only given his permission when I agreed to help layout this trace through the frontier. Mrs. Zane insisted her daughter remain there, so I left her behind. Sarah’s cousin Lyddy accompanied our group to cook our meals. She tenderly cared for me when I accidentally shot my wrist while hunting. Disgusted by my ineptness with firearms, the party left me along with George Mercer to build a ferry when we reached the Muskingum River. Lyddy remained here to continue nursing me. I must admit I took advantage of her.

George helped me build a double log cabin. The two buildings were connected by a breezeway, and one would be used as an inn. When Sarah finally arrived in 1800, she found I had fathered a daughter with Lyddy. Lucky for me, she forgave me and adopted Amelia as her own child. But Sarah demanded a servant. When a bounty hunter came through with an escaped slave, I purchased Mess Johnson to serve our needs. Sarah and I never had children.

When Zane’s Trace was completed, Ebenezer wanted to remain in Wheeling, so he sold these three tracts. His brother Jonathan Zane and I purchased the Muskingum acreage for only $100. Jonathan’s son Isaac came to oversee his share. Ebenezer wanted our settlement to be named Westbourne, but people referred to it as Zane’s Town. When a post office was established, it officially became Zanesville.

When skilled workmen came to the area, I offered them land to settle here. Many repaid me by voting for me as their Washington County representative to the Ohio constitutional convention in 1802. Being from the south, I voted against removing the word “white” from our voting qualifications and against the enfranchisement of blacks and mulattoes.

When I had attempted to purchase land to the south of our settlement, I was thwarted by General Putnam and his two nephews, who drove the auction price to over $4 per acre.

Through the Zane family’s political clout, I was able to sway our Ohio legislators to make Zanesville the county seat when Muskingum County was apportioned from Washington County.

When I heard that the northerners from across the river were erecting a large stone building in an attempt to get our state legislature to move there, I started a subscription to build a commodious brick statehouse in Zanesville. Much to my pleasure, we succeeded in becoming the state capital, but this only lasted two years.

Believing any land east of the river should belong to us, I begged my father-in-law to petition Congress to rule in our favor. I also tried to obtain a deed from the Marietta land office. When this failed, I filed a lawsuit against the Land Office Receiver named Woods. The writ of mandamus trying to force Woods to issue it finally ended up in the United States Supreme Court, where the judges refused to overturn the state.

After my attempt at erecting a sawmill failed, I formed the Zanesville Canal and Manufacturing Company. In my will, I bequeathed a portion of my estate to my wife and Amelia with the remainder to my company. Upon their demise, the money would fund a school for poor children.

***

My name is Increase Mathews. I was born into a large Massachusetts farm family in 1772. We were devout members of the Congregational Church. As a child, my mother taught me to play the violoncello. This was something I enjoyed playing throughout the rest of my life.

My father owned a sawmill and was a town trustee. He and my older brothers were Revolutionary War veterans. My mother’s youngest brother was Brigadier-General Rufus Putnam, who organized the Ohio Company of Associates to begin a settlement in the Northwest Territory in 1788.

As a young man, I received one year of education at Harvard then was medically trained by Dr. Stephen Field, but always preferred making medicinal treatments. In 1798, I visited my older sister, brother, and uncle in Ohio, but couldn’t afford to purchase land. Returning to Massachusetts, I married Nabby Willis. Our daughter Melissa was born there.

When Congress changed the frontier land purchase requirements, I transplanted my wife and infant daughter to Ohio. We arrived in Marietta in October 1800. By early spring, we moved to Zanesville where my older brother John and I rented a cabin from John McIntire for our joint trading post. As the only physician, I travelled up to 30 miles to care for patients.

I had an almost instantaneous dislike for McIntire who boasted that he had hosted royalty at his inn when the exiled Louis Phillipe of France visited this area.

When I attended the first public land auction, McIntire bid on the same acreage driving the price up from the original $2. I had to bid $4.05 per acre to secure this land for Uncle Rufus Putnam, his nephew Levi Whipple and myself. We acquired almost 1100 acres with a small part lying on the east side of the Muskingum River. Our purchase price was in excess of $4,400. It would be years before we turned a profit.

Considering McIntire a drunken lout, I hurriedly built a two-story log cabin and moved my family and trading post onto our partnership lands. Our joint venture built the first permanent sawmill and gristmill structures. When I later dissolved my partnership with brother John, I changed the trading post into a drug store.

Nabby died shortly after giving birth to another daughter. Worrying that my skills were insufficient, I decided to give up practicing medicine as soon as another doctor arrived. Alone in this wilderness with two small children, I soon remarried. Betsey Leavens was a perfect helpmate, and I had another eight children with her. Our daughter Lucy died before she turned nine.

I was elected trustee when Springfield Township was created. Many of the residents of our settlement came from New England and were also religious. We soon formed a church and built the first schoolhouse on land we had set aside for government buildings and as a park. When we combined our church services with Zanesville residents, Mrs. McIntire regularly attended, yet her husband seldom did.

Hoping to persuade our legislature to move the capital from Chillicothe to Springfield, I formed a schoolhouse venture with Levi and Ebenezer Buckingham Jr. We built a large two-story stone structure that still stands today. Unfortunately, Zanesville was chosen. But church services took place there immediately after the building was completed. I have used this Stone Academy to hide fugitive slaves.
After giving up the practice of medicine, I devoted my time to my apothecary business and agriculture. I imported the first Merino sheep into Muskingum County and won the best award at our first county fair.

Betsey, my oldest son Henry and his wife Margaret, plus my daughter Melissa died before me. In my will, I provided for my seven surviving children plus my grandchildren.