Horsin’ around
Don Coldsmith
Originally published 02:40 p.m., March 31, 2008
Updated 02:40 p.m., March 31, 2008
Normally, there are four weeks in a month. A columnist who writes a weekly article soon notices that some months are longer than others. In a 12-month year, there are not exactly four weeks in each.
I write ahead, a month at a time, because of unpredictable schedules on the lecture circuit, weather, book festivals — in the past year, even a few health problems have been involved.
Under better control now, I can revert to what passes for normal around here. Our “release dates” on the column are on Mondays, for no particular reason. Just the need to be consistent.
A decade or so ago, on a bus tour with other writers of the West, there was a fascinating conversation. There was no narrator to explain the history of the area — that would happen after our arrival at our destination. However, (as there usually is) there was one individual who was explaining the area and its history.
We were traveling on a good highway, running parallel to a ridge of low hills which formed a bluff, with trees and rocks along the top facing the highway. There were almost no signs of human activity along that ridge, which ran for many miles.
Then unexpectedly, a small but beautiful old church building, with a prominent cross. There was an indication of age, as well as questionable access. Tucked in under the trees, access had obviously been from the other side of the ridge. No other signs of human use could be seen, in any direction.
“Now there,” droned the voice of our self-appointed guide, “is said to be the Lost Mine. When the sun comes up on Easter Sunday, the shadow of that cross falls across the opening of the richest gold mine ever known in these hills. But nobody’s ever found it.”
I was wondering — if there is such a landmark, there were a few things we could count on. One, it would have been mined out when discovered. But they couldn’t find it again? Then how did they know how rich it was, if it was never mined?
Many of the passengers on this bus trip to see the area were the families of the writers at the meeting. Some, not well informed about the history and geography of the area. The self-appointed narrator must have been depending on these. He was relishing the oohs and aahs of his audience, drinking his story in as if it were gospel truth.
There was something wrong here, something I couldn’t quite pin down — The storyteller was still milking the sunrise theme when one of the other passengers, seated across the aisle, leaned toward me.
“Don,” he said quietly, “isn’t Easter a LUNAR event?”
Of course! That was the problem. A holiday occasion marked by a position of the moon rather than the sun, as most of our special days are. It will rarely be on the same date from year to year.
It was embarrassing, of course, to listen to the teller of tall tales. I doubt that there were more than a handful of listeners on the bus who realized the situation.
The man who had called my attention to it had a little different background, that of an archivist and museum preservationist. We never did call the attention of the other passengers to our discovery. It was a private running joke for years.
We’ve lost track of this contact, along the line, but for years, in any meeting of writers that we both attended, there was almost a ritual. If any speaker seemed to be out of line, we’d glance across the room at each other, and nod solemnly and seriously.
Neither of us has ever believed that the storyteller actually realizes that a gigantic joke was on him.
See you down the road.
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