A Most Unusual Passage
Copyright© 2026 by J&J
Chapter 11
I could hardly believe it; I was actually having fun, certainly the first fun since coming to Colorado and maybe since losing my best friend, although Marcus certainly seemed an unlikely replacement. On first impression, he seemed taciturn and dour, as dry and featureless as the countryside. But he was showing a dry wit and a hint of playfulness I would never have expected.
No fool, Marcus not only knew exactly when and how I slipped the barb to Harold, insulting the man to his face so sweetly I thought he was going to thank me; he enjoyed it immensely. Then he in turn surprised both of us, with his offer to spend the summer mentoring me. In the end, it was obvious that Marcus had finessed and maneuvered everyone to his agenda and gotten everything he wanted. Especially Harold sniffing up Everett’s ... tree to see what was up. Whatever his faults, Harold Barney struck me as the tenacious bulldog type who made up for any lack of clever insight by just grabbing a problem by the throat and shaking it until the truth fell out. I now felt comfortable that the “conspiracy” was limited to Everett, a man I considered no great threat, and in any case, soon to be exposed.
Now more relaxed, I was in a receptive mood when Marcus surprised me with an unannounced stop at the CO-OP. He pretended it was to show me clothing I would need to know about to live here. As if it’s always a man who takes the new girl shopping and advises her on wardrobe ... not even in eastern Colorado. Marcus took me here, because he wanted to see my reaction to this place. I’m sure he was not disappointed. I don’t think I’ve been that wide-eyed and slack-jawed, since my aunt in New York smuggled me into a Chippendale show.
People come to Charleston all the time, thinking we sit around in Scarlet O’Hara dresses sipping mint juleps at the plantation, while the black folk all live on Catfish Row and sing blues. Sorry, folks. We’ve got plenty of houses and gardens that look just like 1861, but we don’t dress that way. The young women of Charleston are a damn sight more likely to be heading towards the beach in a bikini than sweltering in a hoop skirt. Mint juleps are really more a drink of the Kentucky Derby; Charleston today is a city of wine drinkers. Any plantation that Sherman didn’t burn or Ted Turner purchase is likely open for public tours. Porgy and Bess wouldn’t recognize Catfish Row, which is filled with arty boutiques. Charleston has lovingly preserved the past in its buildings and traditions, but the people live a totally modern lifestyle.
Well, judging by the CO-OP, the Wild West is alive and well, and they still are living on the frontier in eastern Colorado. We have a few ‘western wear’ shops in South Carolina, and you can get a nice Stetson hat, but the clothes are mainly for line dancing, square dancing and wanna-be country singers. Clothing definitely designed for showing off, not for serious work. These clothes were obviously for real working cowboys and farmers. More sturdy than pretty, these garments seemed unchanged from clothes I saw in pictures of my granddad. These bib overalls were not for teenage girls. Cowboy boots not for showing off, cast iron skillets, enamelware pots big enough to feed a regiment, saddles, Indian blankets; hell, I wouldn’t have batted an eyelash if a stage coach had pulled up.
There was plenty of modern stuff, radios, flashlights, tools to make it clear that this was a real store, not a museum. A lot of the stuff, especially agricultural, I had no earthly idea about. I had to ask Marcus, “What is all this stuff?” He obviously enjoyed the chance to fill in the deficiencies of my eastern upbringing.
Truth be told, my interest in agriculture is so limited even my mother finally gave up, after years of trying to involve me in her rose garden. But I realized what a rare treat it must be for Marcus to have someone who hadn’t grown up with all this equipment to let him show off his knowledge. Also, I would now be living in a community where everyone but me would know what everything was, so I had better get up to speed. For the next half hour, he was the teacher, and I was his pupil. There was no mistaking his patience, clarity or happiness, all of which marked him as born to the classroom.
“You miss it sometimes, don’t you?’” I asked,
“Miss what?”
“The classroom. Teaching”
Marcus looked startled, then thoughtful. “Yes, I hadn’t realized it until you said it, but you’re right. It’s the teaching I’ll miss, a lot more than the principaling.” He looked around and then chuckled. “I guess I have been back in the classroom this last half hour. I hope I haven’t bored you.”
“It’s been a joy; you’re a wonderful teacher.”
“Hmmm, as I recall, flattery usually means undone homework, but I’ll overlook it this time; class dismissed. Let’s get you some warm duds, which was the point of this whole stop.”
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