PART ONE: Hank and Erma [an introductory note]
The two of them travel in an RV that would swallow entire homes of families in
other countries. He negotiates the final bend into the parking lot, but soon gives
up and eases to the shoulder. He checks the mirrors, each the size of a dinner
tray, and tugs it into park.
The passenger side door creaks open. She grips her captain’s chair, steadies her
climb down to solid ground. He counts the keys on his chain as though securing a
blessing from a rosary. Their clothes are a matching set of wrinkled pajamas. He
stretches, pressing his hands to the small of his back. She stifles a yawn. Both
squint against powdery rays of sunlight filtering through pine boughs. His forehead
glistens. She pulls on a windbreaker. They twitch and nod like venerable
bobbleheads.
Her voice takes on the pitch of leaky bagpipes. His is a feral language. He grunts
about snacks at Rushmore. Something’s not settling right. She hopes aloud for
finer dining in Yellowstone. They’re in this for the long haul.
They equip their faces with bifocals and post-mydriatic sunglasses. With three
distinct lenses for each eye, they appear ready for both heavy reading and light
welding. They turn to the Tower and ratchet their heads back.
He grunts with a note of surprise and wonder, like a question mark caught in his
throat: Huh, you see that, Erma?
She wheezes: What? Where? Oh would you look at that. How did he get way up
there? Let me see the binoculars. Do you think he has a permit to do that? He
must have a permit. I mean, you can’t just go up there, can you? How? Does he
have a rope? I don’t see a rope. Are you going to give me the binoculars or not?
Look, there’s another. Higher up. How in the world did he get up there? He
could fall, you know. He could just fall, just like that. And then what? For
goodness sake, Hank, would you just for one second let me hold the damn
binoculars?
I am here alone. My wife is at home, exactly 850 miles away. I want to ask her:
Should we grow so old, will we travel together or will I still wander off without
you? Should we ever grow so old, will we still find things that amaze us? Thirty
years from now, should we live so long, what will remain in this country to fill our
mouths with so many urgent questions?
The two of them travel in an RV that would swallow entire homes of families in
other countries. He negotiates the final bend into the parking lot, but soon gives
up and eases to the shoulder. He checks the mirrors, each the size of a dinner
tray, and tugs it into park.
The passenger side door creaks open. She grips her captain’s chair, steadies her
climb down to solid ground. He counts the keys on his chain as though securing a
blessing from a rosary. Their clothes are a matching set of wrinkled pajamas. He
stretches, pressing his hands to the small of his back. She stifles a yawn. Both
squint against powdery rays of sunlight filtering through pine boughs. His forehead
glistens. She pulls on a windbreaker. They twitch and nod like venerable
bobbleheads.
Her voice takes on the pitch of leaky bagpipes. His is a feral language. He grunts
about snacks at Rushmore. Something’s not settling right. She hopes aloud for
finer dining in Yellowstone. They’re in this for the long haul.
They equip their faces with bifocals and post-mydriatic sunglasses. With three
distinct lenses for each eye, they appear ready for both heavy reading and light
welding. They turn to the Tower and ratchet their heads back.
He grunts with a note of surprise and wonder, like a question mark caught in his
throat: Huh, you see that, Erma?
She wheezes: What? Where? Oh would you look at that. How did he get way up
there? Let me see the binoculars. Do you think he has a permit to do that? He
must have a permit. I mean, you can’t just go up there, can you? How? Does he
have a rope? I don’t see a rope. Are you going to give me the binoculars or not?
Look, there’s another. Higher up. How in the world did he get up there? He
could fall, you know. He could just fall, just like that. And then what? For
goodness sake, Hank, would you just for one second let me hold the damn
binoculars?
I am here alone. My wife is at home, exactly 850 miles away. I want to ask her:
Should we grow so old, will we travel together or will I still wander off without
you? Should we ever grow so old, will we still find things that amaze us? Thirty
years from now, should we live so long, what will remain in this country to fill our
mouths with so many urgent questions?
| The Tower in Question by Stephen Ausherman |
All text and photos © 2006 Stephen Ausherman,
with permission for use and display granted to
Devils Tower National Monument. This work is the
creation of the 2005 Writer-in-Residence. Neither
Devils Tower National Monument nor the National
Park Service endorse or warrant as facts any
information presented herein. It also contains subject
matter that may be objectionable to those with an
undeveloped sense of irony and/or self-esteem.
with permission for use and display granted to
Devils Tower National Monument. This work is the
creation of the 2005 Writer-in-Residence. Neither
Devils Tower National Monument nor the National
Park Service endorse or warrant as facts any
information presented herein. It also contains subject
matter that may be objectionable to those with an
undeveloped sense of irony and/or self-esteem.