In the meantime, here's an excerpt. Among other things, Clara's Best (As told by Clara) is the story of my great grandma, Clara Stancil, and her beloved, Henry. It's a story of life in the old West, long ago, when life seemed simple, summer was perennial, and childlike faith assured tomorrows' joys. If you don't enjoy it, I'll eat it up myself, page by page, and wash it down with a healthy dose of humility. SC
HANGTOWN TRILOGY
CLARA'S BEST
Episode Nine
CYNTHIA
Weeks later, my stepfather loaded me into a wagon, along with a few of our belongings, and lit out for parts unknown, never to be heard from again. There were rumors that he left for the Klondike, but we never really knew for sure and certain. Along the way, he dropped me off at an orphanage in Genoa, Nevada. Thus, ended my years of youthful innocence and adolescent optimism, but thank God, there were better days ahead.
The orphanage in Genoa was a sprawling three story affair with a bathhouse, a kitchen, a massive dining room, and several dozen tiny rooms, each boasting one window. It was constructed originally by several well-to-do townsfolk who envisioned the monstrosity as a vacation destination. Of course, there were not sufficient people for miles around to fill the place. They believed, if they built it, they’d come. They didn’t, and it eventually became an orphanage.
Each room, when stretched to capacity, held two or three orphans. My roommate was Cynthia. Cynthia was a petite, towheaded little princess, who immediately beguiled every soul she met, until they became better acquainted. Cynthia was batshit crazy!
Cynthia didn’t care particularly for anyone, but for some inconceivable reason, Cynthia took an immediate liking to me. So, we became roommates. Occasionally, we were served meals in our rooms. On such occasions most everyone received a knife, a fork, and a spoon. Cynthia and I received only spoons. On the occasion that Cynthia acquired a knife, or anything sharp, she invariably threw it like a dagger at the door. Needless to say, the maintenance man took a dim view of this behavior.
Most orphans who had proven themselves responsible enjoyed the privilege of a lamp or candle in their room. Our room remained dark. On the lamentable occasions when Cynthia was able to acquire matches, she invariably lit something on fire. Several years later, Henry had need to verify his date of birth, which we believed to be May 6, 1868, around the same time as mine. This proved impossible to verify, because none of his records had survived the conflagration. Cynthia had burned much of the orphanage to the ground. Cynthia goes off halfcocked about every twenty minutes; I love her like a sister, but it takes a terrible toll on a body’s nerves.
So, as the story goes, there’s this old farmer. He goes into this store searching for something for anxiety. His nerves are clearly shot! While paying for his merchandise, his hands are shaking until he’s just barely able to count out his change. About then, this woman at a display behind him, bumps a supporting can in a pyramid display of cans. Those cans come down in a crash and clatter that would startle the feathers off a wooden Indian!
This poor old fellow is instantly on top of the counter! The clerk assists him down and asks what in the world is wrong. “Well,” the farmer explains, staring at the floor and shaking his head dejectedly, “It’s my wife; she thinks she’s a chicken! She clucks and fluffs and scratches. It’s beginning to take a toll!” The clerk is horrified and clearly sympathetic. “Well,” he suggests, “why don’t you just get rid of her?” “It’s not that easy.” The farmer explains. “I don’t know how we’d survive without the eggs.”
That’s kind of how I am with Cynthia. At this point, I rely heavily on our friendship.
One Friday morning, the facility received a new boy. One wing of the institution housed boys, the other wing, girls. This policy was strictly enforced, for the most part. We all became acquainted while in the dining room for meals. Henry was French Canadian. While on a trek from Quebec and the Great Lakes region, to points north, Henry’s parents had taken ill and passed away. Henry was around my age, taller than average, easily tanned, thin as a rail, and he spoke softly, with a delightful French accent. There was reason to believe he had Indian ancestry.
I’d love to share the heartwarming account of a shy boy, warming gradually to a bashful, teenage girl. That didn’t happen. To everyone’s amusement, on the very first moment that Henry lay eyes on me, we spied each other instantly as he entered the dining room. Both of us fought the inclination to look immediately away. Instead, Henry never took his eyes off mine. He made a beeline across the entire dining room, tipping over several chairs in the process, took me in his arms for an uncomfortably long embrace, stared with startling tenderness and moist eyes into the very depths of my soul, and then found us a seat together at the table. From that moment on, except during long nights confined to our rooms, Henry and I were inseparable.
Copyright ©
Shannon T. Casebeer
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