purposes, but I enjoy looking through them. There is definitely a stark contrast from where my father first began his comics to where he ended up at the end. His drawing abilities flourished, and I can see that his confidence grew after about issue ten.
“Anything useful yet?” I ask Mae.
She’s at the other end of the aisle, and she shrugs.
“Not too much,” she replies, kneeling on the carpeted floor with a bunch of papers laid out around her. “A few scraps. I found a description of the Vestige from the beginning, but not much else. A lot of these boxes are concept sketches.”
That’s what I’m finding as well. Though, I’m not getting discouraged. We’ve only just begun, and there are plenty more boxes to go through.
I return the papers that I’m holding to the box in front of me and slide it back on the shelf and go to pull down the next one.
This one is heavy, and I find that instead of artwork in here, there are piles of typed pages. These were done on an old Smith-Corona that my mother still has in our home. It’s one of the things that we wouldn’t give up to the publishing house.
Before I get too deep into the box, however, I am stopped by something that I don’t expect.
Sitting on top of one of the piles of papers is a photograph of my father and me. I don’t remember when it was taken, but it was obviously when I was very young. I look to be about four. Dad is holding me in his arms. He’s so young. His hair is full, his eyes are bright, and we’re both laughing. It’s a professional photograph because the background is a solid screen of fabric.
I crouch down with the box, nearly sitting on the floor, and reach out to the photograph. My hand trembles slightly as I pick it up by the edge.
My father’s eyes look back at me, almost like they were expecting to see me here.
“Hi, Dad,” I say softly. I bring a hand up to my chin for a moment, covering my lips. “Would you look at us? So happy.”
I flip the photo over and see that it is inscribed with my mother’s handwriting. The inscription reads: My two best men .
I blink away the tears from my eyes. No need to let Mae see me getting so emotional.
I set the photo down and lift out a stack of the typed papers.
To my surprise I see the heading of the first one reads “The Vestige”.
Looking back at the photo, I smile.
“Guiding my steps again, Dad?” I say.
Then I dig into the papers.
They are dense. My father used to type in a flow of notes - connected thoughts - things that he called thinking-and-writing. This was where his main task was to write exactly what he was thinking and then make sense of it all at the end of his session. These are typed thinking and writing notes.
The first page starts off with general notes about the Vestige. These are mostly descriptions of what the medallion looks like. As I remember from the comic books, the medallion is star-shaped with five corners. Under my shirt, however, the Vestige is missing the top right corner. That is not accounted for here.
Then the notes go on to talk about where the Vestige came from. It seems that in this early stage even my father didn’t know exactly where it originated.
The notes turn into a bulleted list.
It reads:
Space? Crash landing.
Earth origin? Possible, but how? What are the details?
Obviously ancient. From a time beyond man. The Vestige taps into a forgotten power that only the Shamans or Native Americans can remember. It is all legend and there are few who truly remember the power.
I pull out my tiny notebook from my pocket and begin to scratch out notes.
Native American origin? I scribble. That is one that I never really heard from my father. These notes are incredibly early on. Most scholars who have studied my father’s work believe that the object came from space. I suppose that it’s possible that the Vestige could have come from space and also been of Native American origin, if they were the first people to discover it.
But, how
“Anything useful yet?” I ask Mae.
She’s at the other end of the aisle, and she shrugs.
“Not too much,” she replies, kneeling on the carpeted floor with a bunch of papers laid out around her. “A few scraps. I found a description of the Vestige from the beginning, but not much else. A lot of these boxes are concept sketches.”
That’s what I’m finding as well. Though, I’m not getting discouraged. We’ve only just begun, and there are plenty more boxes to go through.
I return the papers that I’m holding to the box in front of me and slide it back on the shelf and go to pull down the next one.
This one is heavy, and I find that instead of artwork in here, there are piles of typed pages. These were done on an old Smith-Corona that my mother still has in our home. It’s one of the things that we wouldn’t give up to the publishing house.
Before I get too deep into the box, however, I am stopped by something that I don’t expect.
Sitting on top of one of the piles of papers is a photograph of my father and me. I don’t remember when it was taken, but it was obviously when I was very young. I look to be about four. Dad is holding me in his arms. He’s so young. His hair is full, his eyes are bright, and we’re both laughing. It’s a professional photograph because the background is a solid screen of fabric.
I crouch down with the box, nearly sitting on the floor, and reach out to the photograph. My hand trembles slightly as I pick it up by the edge.
My father’s eyes look back at me, almost like they were expecting to see me here.
“Hi, Dad,” I say softly. I bring a hand up to my chin for a moment, covering my lips. “Would you look at us? So happy.”
I flip the photo over and see that it is inscribed with my mother’s handwriting. The inscription reads: My two best men .
I blink away the tears from my eyes. No need to let Mae see me getting so emotional.
I set the photo down and lift out a stack of the typed papers.
To my surprise I see the heading of the first one reads “The Vestige”.
Looking back at the photo, I smile.
“Guiding my steps again, Dad?” I say.
Then I dig into the papers.
They are dense. My father used to type in a flow of notes - connected thoughts - things that he called thinking-and-writing. This was where his main task was to write exactly what he was thinking and then make sense of it all at the end of his session. These are typed thinking and writing notes.
The first page starts off with general notes about the Vestige. These are mostly descriptions of what the medallion looks like. As I remember from the comic books, the medallion is star-shaped with five corners. Under my shirt, however, the Vestige is missing the top right corner. That is not accounted for here.
Then the notes go on to talk about where the Vestige came from. It seems that in this early stage even my father didn’t know exactly where it originated.
The notes turn into a bulleted list.
It reads:
Space? Crash landing.
Earth origin? Possible, but how? What are the details?
Obviously ancient. From a time beyond man. The Vestige taps into a forgotten power that only the Shamans or Native Americans can remember. It is all legend and there are few who truly remember the power.
I pull out my tiny notebook from my pocket and begin to scratch out notes.
Native American origin? I scribble. That is one that I never really heard from my father. These notes are incredibly early on. Most scholars who have studied my father’s work believe that the object came from space. I suppose that it’s possible that the Vestige could have come from space and also been of Native American origin, if they were the first people to discover it.
But, how
Similar Books
