were becoming a little weary of it all. And they knew the visit to his former refuge would be emotional enough.
As it turned out, the detour provided some scenic benefit, meandering as it did through some gorgeous countryside before widening through the now-sprawling outskirts of Leesburg, Virginia, then shooting straight down to join I-66 west near Manassas.
Nancy took in the gigantic outlet malls and sea of townhouse clusters lining both sides of the wide highway. She wondered what the many men who had fought and died in this area in the Civil War nearly 150 years ago would think of it all.
The interstate began a detectable rise, as the surroundings gradually changed to horse and dairy farms, and they could see the first row of the Blue Ridge Mountains in the distance, their tops appearing volcanic in the heavy mist. They were part of the vast Appalachians, which run more than a thousand miles from Georgia to Maine and are among the oldest ranges on Earth.
They rode through a cleft in the hills near Delaplane then descended into a valley outside the small community of Linden.
“Here’s our exit,” Galen called out.
They pulled off the highway and stopped at the roadhouse where he and Cathy had closed the deal so many years ago. It had changed a bit, not quite as rural or folksy, but it still featured cider and donuts.
“Okay, guys and gals, pit stop and eats,” Edison called out. He knew Galen needed the break as badly as he did.
Ah, the pleasures of senior-citizen bladders!
Newly relieved, they reconvened at one of the tables that reminded the three adults of the old diners populating every rural roadside after World War II: chrome-trimmed, Formica counters and the long soda bar with red vinyl, mushroom-pedestal seats that stretched the length of the room.
After wolfing down donuts with apple juice—an act for which Edison’s dyspepsia would punish him later—they wandered through the adjoining crafts shop, which was loaded with hand-made quilts, wooden lawn ornaments and signs, and stuffed animals. The kids were fascinated by all the toys made of wood. Edison, ever the master carpenter, made mental notes on how he would duplicate them in his shop.
Nancy and Carmelita browsed the dry goods and quilts, while the boys pulled at the two men, pleading for the specialty of the house: raccoon-tail fur hats.
Edison grabbed a hat and put it on.
Galen did likewise.
“Fess Parker,” he said.
“Buddy Ebsen,” Edison replied, grinning.
A beat, and then suddenly as if on cue the two sang, in unison, “Davey, Davey Crockett, king of the wild frontier!”
Those younger than sixty just stared in confusion.
Galen bought hats for each of the boys and offered to get one for Edison and Carmelita as well. Edison was tempted but noticed Nancy’s disapproving look and declined.
Carmelita also declined but did ask for something else: a framed needlepoint. It was in the style of an 1830s-vintage sampler, done by young girls in the distant past to demonstrate their home skills. She didn’t know that, of course. She only knew it somehow attracted her, its border of birds and good-luck signs double-framing its message, which she read in her now-flawless English:
“Bless the children of this house and those who love them so.”
Edison, faster than Galen at pulling out his wallet, took the framed art to the counter.
“How about one last bathroom break?” Galen asked. He and Edison took the boys, and Nancy took Carmelita. Apple cider makes a very effective diuretic.
They headed briefly along state route 55 then turned at the old general store. The former dirt road, now paved, twisted and turned up Blue Mountain.
Not just the pavement had changed. The apple orchards had fallen victim to the lure of developers’ money. Where once row after row of carefully pruned trees blossomed in the spring and appeared laden with Christmas-ornament-colored apple globes in the fall, new houses were sprouting.
The three adults sighed wordlessly, as older people often do when confronted by the inevitability of change.
As they climbed higher, Galen saw the reason why the old gravel road had been replaced by asphalt: two giant microwave-relay towers at the mountain crest, joined by an even more recent cell phone tower. He missed the rumble-bumps of the old road—but his kidneys didn’t.
“Look at that,” Edison said almost giddily. “I helped design those beasties!”
Sometimes, change is not so hard to take.
Nancy looked admiringly at her husband. She knew all the great things he had accomplished in his long career, for many of which others had claimed credit. She leaned over and kissed his cheek.
They reached a crossroads at the top, and the pavement ran out.
“Behold the Fortress of Solitude,” Galen announced.
The kids had no idea what he was talking about, but they perked up and looked out the windows, as Edison drove onto the tree-haloed, narrow dirt road, still posted with the wildlife-service signs, that ended at the giant oak. Old Ollie still cast its mighty shadow over the entrance.
As the children unfastened their seatbelts, Nancy took charge.
“Now listen carefully, kids. You stay here with us. Don’t go running off to play yet, understand?”
All three nodded.
Nancy knew the boys wanted to race around like the wind, but until everyone got their bearings on this mountain, she didn’t want to take any chances. Sure enough, Tonio and Freddie quickly disappeared. She looked around nervously, until she saw Freddie tagging along with Edison and Tonio heading after Galen.
Well, as long as the men don’t get lost, the boys won’t, either.
Galen walked slowly down the logging path. He wanted to visit the spring once more. He heard footsteps running up behind him and turned to see Tonio. Though he had relished the thought of being alone for a while, he realized it would be good to share this with the boy. So he put on a smile.
“Come, Tonio, let’s go to a very special place, a place where the animals come to drink. You and I will be the first to see it, okay? Then we can bring your brother and sister with Tia Nancy and Tio Edison.”
He walked even more slowly now that Tonio was with him. Yes, it was better to have company, to share observations, to give of one’s self by teaching another.
“Look, Tonio, see that? It’s a pileated woodpecker. And over there, Trifolium plants.”
Each new site brought forth burbles of delight from the boy.
As they neared the spring, Galen gestured to Tonio to keep very, very quiet. They moved as silently as a young boy and an old man could. Luck was with them. They saw two raccoons drinking from the pool that the dam of glacial rock had formed below the spring. Tonio tugged on his coonskin hat, as he watched the animals wash their faces in the clear-flowing water.
Suddenly
