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I guess I never said that much about Cousin Frederick Weber because the times I've seen him were once every five years at our high school Quinquennial Reunion Celebration.
Fred is my aunt's . . . second husband's . . . oldest son . . . by his first wife. There! I think I've got that family tree business right. He's what people call a "tramp printer" in the medieval meaning of a journeyman with no permanent home who "tramps" from one print shop to the next, broadening his knowledge with how each shop practices the printing trade.
After apprenticeship, he worked at hand-setting type for the Oxville Bulletin newspaper; then learned to run and maintain a "Linotype" contraption the publisher bought to set type by machine.
Fred never married--not so far anyway; makes decent money I guess. Works where the urge takes him -- the U.S., Canada, Fairbanks in Alaska. Sometimes he stays only a week or two; sometimes a couple-three months; once worked a whole year at the Star Ledger paper in Texas--said he liked the weather! Every time his foot gets to itching again, he hops on the next railroad or steamboat for a new place that tickles his fancy.
He's a decent fellow who likes good food, an occasional small glass of schnapps, and any kind of machine with moving parts that he can watch and study. He tells fascinating stories about where he's been, how he got there, and how he left--sometimes just in the nick of time!
But for all that, he's also a Bore, sir . . . an AB-SO-LUTE . . . UN-RE-LENT-ING . . . BORE !!
It's that 937-page manuscript he carries around, you see . . . he calls it his Great American Novel . . . wrote it years ago and been constantly revising it ever since. At every newspaper he's worked, he offers to let them publish it as a months-long serial that he's sure would increase readership. And every newspaper he's worked at says the readers want only local news and weekend store sale ads, but "Thanks Anyway."
For at least 30 years, he's been convinced people would be very interested in his story if they heard it. So, he reads it to anyone who can be trapped into listening for a while . . . droning on and on and on.
~
Hadn't seen hide nor hair of him at the last high school Reunion Celebration, but heard he was at Everett Herald, about 90 miles over the hill. Then, six weeks ago, he arrived at my house with his satchel--and that manuscript!
"Hello Cousin," he said. "Long time--no see. Herald readers didn't want a months-long serial story; besides, my foot's been itching--it's moving-along time. You're on the road to Woburg where I start at the Journal on the tenth of next month . . . thought I'd stop for a neighborly visit . . . and after dinner tonight I can read my latest manuscript revisions to you for your opinion."
For the next whole week--mornings, noons, and nights--there was no escape . . . not mealtimes . . . not bathroom necessaries . . . not the wee hours of night usually reserved for sleep! Cousin Fred kept himself awake--I don't know how--to continue his assault, confident I was dying to hear more!
I was ready to say or do terrible things when there came a knock on the door by a little old man carrying a valise and a small blackboard. "My name is Ed Parker," he wrote on the blackboard. "Can't speak or hear; am enroute to family in Cleveland. Glad to do what needs doing for a couple days of bed & board plus a little cash money to help finance the trip."
An answer to my prayers!
I wrote on his blackboard, "Are you willing to help an author revise his book? He will read it to you for hours; all you have to do is seem to listen. But he mustn't know you can't hear." Mr. Parker nodded; a bargain was struck. I introduced him to Cousin Fred.
I'd just hired a Heaven-sent defense against going completely mad!
Mr. Parker would nod gravely as the verbal battering continued . . . hour after hour . . . day after day . . . until exhaustion overcame endurance and imposed sleep.
On Monday morning Mr. Parker's valise was packed; he said he'd leave as soon as he was paid. "This is much more than anyone should be forced to bear," he said.
"Hold on there--you wrote that you can't speak or hear!"
"That's true," he said. "I only pretend it so people overlook my age. I give folks honest work for what I get, but this was too inhuman."
I paid him, expressed my heart-felt thanks for six days of manuscript-free peace and quiet, and wondered what I'd do now. Mr. Parker thumbed a ride on a wagon headed for the railroad station; I never saw him again.
Cousin Fred may have been a bore, but he's no fool. He'd overheard our conversation, and knew at once what had been going on. Before I could get to him, he'd packed his clean shirts and that manuscript. "Thank you for your hospitality, Cousin, tho' I'm disappointed you didn't come right out and say you were much too busy to listen to my book. Train leaves for Woburg and the Journal at noon. I shall be on it and will not bother you with my book any more."
Ouch--that hurt! Still, he was right on the mark.
~
I received a far happier letter from him this morning, saying he'd hit paydirt. The Journal was quite happy to have someone who could not only run, but also fix, their two Linotypes and other machinery. They had him typeset his Great American Novel as work allowed; issued it as a paperback book instead of a months-long serial. They'd sold out the first printing and were doing a larger reprint!
I called Fred to say how pleased I was that after so many years his dream had become a fact, and would he please mail me two copies of his book for the check I was putting in the mail.
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Not everyone has a cousin named Frederick--but everyone has someone similar in the family who . . . |
