Chapter 13

Karen

I AM so glad I didn’t buy school clothes.

In my first week as a freshman, I have noticed there are TWO types of women attending classes; those who view college as grade 13 in high school and those who were ignored by the clique when they were seniors. Grade 13 insists on class order: she who commands the lunchroom commands the school.

You can sit with us.
You can’t sit with us.
You can sit with the jocks.
You belong with the stoners.
EWW! Nerds!

Those girls dressed ... fashionably. If it was “in style” for their age group, one of them was wearing it ... the others were”Autumn.” Russets; latte, caramel. Orange; sienna, persimmon; the yellows; Flax, butter, lemon, mustard, corn, dandelion, fire, butterscotch, honey, tuscan. The reds.

I am so glad I didn’t have time ... and I like Carhartts ... and bibs and jeans and wool shirts and boots.

The others have no time for a repeat of high school. Most of the girls who recognize that the Nerds and Geeks are going to be the salvation of the country.

I was the only girl taking a class in machine tools. Even though I was as pretty as the Grade 13 women, I wasn’t interested in High School as a repeat offender. Besides, I was teaching ... yup. Vintage Gunsmithing 101.

Here’s how it works; you’re interested in a subject but there’s no instructor. There’s a Bulletin Board of Prospective Classes. Classes that some student would like to get credit for teaching. Macramé comes to mind. Tye Dye is another. If six people express an interest and sign up the progenitor of said class finds space and organizes it. The classes are generally at night. Some classes require that attendees supply their own materials. I posted:

FLINTLOCK RIFLE
A Journey into the Past
Make Your Own Flintlock Rifle
Build from Parts or from Scratch
Interested? Sign Up!

I have space. I have the necessary tools. There is a book, FOXFIRE 5. Not only is it in the school library, the Bookstore carries the set!

Holy Crap! I have interest! SEVEN! Seven people signed the prospective tender.

I went to Amy with the list. I figure this is mostly her fault anyway. She looked up particulars on her computer and proceeded to call each prospective participant. On confirmation she gave them my phone number. Then she called Dean Davis ... I mean, she swiveled in her chair and hollered, “Doctor Davis.”

Of course he was hiding out in the Guidance Office. I’ve never seen him anywhere else. One of these days ... I’ll find out why.

“Hello Miss Post,” he said.

He remembered me. Should I be honored or wary? All things considered ... wary.

He assumed his normal spot; leaning against the door jamb. Yes ... he had a coffee cup in his hand. Yes ... he sipped and made his normal face.

“You know, Amy. You should have Karen teach you how to make a good cup of coffee.”

She shook ... either from constrained laughter or incipient tears. I don’t know which.

“No ... it’s true, Karen. Ever since I had coffee at your shop ... nothing else tastes as good. What’s your secret?”

“Stale water. I get the water from the toilet tank. It’s covered so it doesn’t get dusty. The flush mechanism tank refill aerates because the flow splashes ... I am sorry.”

He was struggling with a serious case of the gags. “Good god, Karen. Really? From the toilet?” Amy burst out laughing.

“Would I lie to you?” I was serious ... stale water makes good coffee. When the only available is in the toilet tank ... use what you got. At least it wasn’t from the stool ... like a little girls tea party. At the cabin we kept a big copper pot on the range. Now that is something, copper imparts a unique flavor to coffee ... and moonshine.

You can learn the darndest things from Foxfire.

While I was busy with school, I finally heard from Hairy. He was exploring these United States of America and having a great time. He had heard from his attorney of a coming sale and wanted me to go.

“Take money. I’m arranging a Letter of Credit through the State Bank in Ranchester ... you should take your jeep.”

“I’m in college.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

“How did that happen?”

So I had to explain.

“That’s great!” he said. “Should I come back and hit the auction?”

“What date?”

“October 13 ... it’s a Thursday.”

“Where is it?”

“Oddly enough ... the cabin,” Hairy said. “If you were to draw a straight line north from the hay field access east of the cabin to Wolf Creek road, cutting out the little jog in the road?”

“Yes?”

“That’s it.”

“Why?”

“It’s ‘inconvenient’”.