he’d grownso much taller than she was. There was a bunch of lavender hanging upside down above the kitchen sink, and he breathed that in alongside the earthy scent of the garden beyond the open door.
He had planned other activities for his day off: changing oil on the truck, a long walk with Bear. But Annie’s decision obviously belonged at the top of the list. After washing dishes from his breakfast and leaving his grandmother cloaked in a veil of steaming vegetables, he whistled for Bear and headed outside.
In the shed, the canoe had been patiently waiting. Unlocking the door, Martin’s first glimpse took in the radiant beauty of his grandfather’s handiwork. Air and light—streaming in from the windows and now the shed’s open door—stirred up clouds of dust motes that reminded him of mica chips glittering in river water. Suspended from the rafters and bone-dry from lack of use, the birch-bark canoe still exhaled a kind of vitality, a living, breathing body. He reached up to touch the hull, caressing its hand-rubbed seams, silently counting its ribs, imagining Joseph’s fingerprints on everything.
Ready now, he lifted the canoe free of the hooks and placed it right side up on his left shoulder, grasping the paddle from its resting place on the wall. Bear was bounding ahead of him on the well-worn path that led from Annie’s land to the water’s edge. Within a few minutes’ walk, the smooth surface of the river welcomed the canoe’s arrival—no, its return—now doubling its beauty. Martin removed his sandals and allowed himself to envision Sophie at the edge of the water alongside him, her bare legs reflected and rippling.
Still, it was right and necessary to be alone for this part of the farewell. Martin told Bear to wait; they would be leaving together soon. Holding the craft steady, he knelt inside its cradling shape, and pushed away from the shore.
Paddling, pausing, he saw how his own hands had grown to resemble what he remembered of his father’s and grandfather’s too, his younger skin merely awaiting the eventual imprint of a worker’s tasks. In contrast, at least for now, the work of his hands was in the service of machines rather than boats or bridges. Joseph’s calluses wouldn’t be repeated on Martin’s body. The one-at-a-time art form his grandfather had pursued was nearly obsolete now, and it saddened him to think there was probably no one else in Electric City who felt the loss. Midge, perhaps? He would have to ask her.
Martin’s thoughts wandered further as he passed the place where Camp Mohawk used to perch on the cliff. Joseph would have known how to measure the distance between the river and the treetops, tracking the arc of hawk vision and the amount of moisture in the air. Even the soil held such memories, fossils buried by time. For once Martin wished he had a recording of Steinmetz to add to his collection, a conversation blending the past with the future. All these voices so as not to be alone.
He trailed his fingers in the soft water, imitating the wavelets made by a family of wood ducks nearby. There should have been fish, at least an occasional brown trout or smallmouth bass, but they were disappearing, yet more evidence of a disturbing trend of losses. Streaming through his mind were questions he never felt comfortable asking in his classes, whispers of his own heart.
Electromagnetism everywhere, long before we knew how to harness it. And then what happened? DC and AC, the terrible stories about Edison who was so sure of his convictions about DC that he was willing to electrocute animals— dogs! an elephant!! —to prove that AC was the “death current.” He was wrong. This was the way science could make monsters or monsters could make science.
What about Oppenheimer and all the others willing to pretend it didn’t matter how their science would be used, or who mostly avoided talking about the uses they couldn’t control? “Destroyer of worlds,” Oppenheimer
He had planned other activities for his day off: changing oil on the truck, a long walk with Bear. But Annie’s decision obviously belonged at the top of the list. After washing dishes from his breakfast and leaving his grandmother cloaked in a veil of steaming vegetables, he whistled for Bear and headed outside.
In the shed, the canoe had been patiently waiting. Unlocking the door, Martin’s first glimpse took in the radiant beauty of his grandfather’s handiwork. Air and light—streaming in from the windows and now the shed’s open door—stirred up clouds of dust motes that reminded him of mica chips glittering in river water. Suspended from the rafters and bone-dry from lack of use, the birch-bark canoe still exhaled a kind of vitality, a living, breathing body. He reached up to touch the hull, caressing its hand-rubbed seams, silently counting its ribs, imagining Joseph’s fingerprints on everything.
Ready now, he lifted the canoe free of the hooks and placed it right side up on his left shoulder, grasping the paddle from its resting place on the wall. Bear was bounding ahead of him on the well-worn path that led from Annie’s land to the water’s edge. Within a few minutes’ walk, the smooth surface of the river welcomed the canoe’s arrival—no, its return—now doubling its beauty. Martin removed his sandals and allowed himself to envision Sophie at the edge of the water alongside him, her bare legs reflected and rippling.
Still, it was right and necessary to be alone for this part of the farewell. Martin told Bear to wait; they would be leaving together soon. Holding the craft steady, he knelt inside its cradling shape, and pushed away from the shore.
Paddling, pausing, he saw how his own hands had grown to resemble what he remembered of his father’s and grandfather’s too, his younger skin merely awaiting the eventual imprint of a worker’s tasks. In contrast, at least for now, the work of his hands was in the service of machines rather than boats or bridges. Joseph’s calluses wouldn’t be repeated on Martin’s body. The one-at-a-time art form his grandfather had pursued was nearly obsolete now, and it saddened him to think there was probably no one else in Electric City who felt the loss. Midge, perhaps? He would have to ask her.
Martin’s thoughts wandered further as he passed the place where Camp Mohawk used to perch on the cliff. Joseph would have known how to measure the distance between the river and the treetops, tracking the arc of hawk vision and the amount of moisture in the air. Even the soil held such memories, fossils buried by time. For once Martin wished he had a recording of Steinmetz to add to his collection, a conversation blending the past with the future. All these voices so as not to be alone.
He trailed his fingers in the soft water, imitating the wavelets made by a family of wood ducks nearby. There should have been fish, at least an occasional brown trout or smallmouth bass, but they were disappearing, yet more evidence of a disturbing trend of losses. Streaming through his mind were questions he never felt comfortable asking in his classes, whispers of his own heart.
Electromagnetism everywhere, long before we knew how to harness it. And then what happened? DC and AC, the terrible stories about Edison who was so sure of his convictions about DC that he was willing to electrocute animals— dogs! an elephant!! —to prove that AC was the “death current.” He was wrong. This was the way science could make monsters or monsters could make science.
What about Oppenheimer and all the others willing to pretend it didn’t matter how their science would be used, or who mostly avoided talking about the uses they couldn’t control? “Destroyer of worlds,” Oppenheimer
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