PurgaStories
Second Chance Tales
Grand Depot, once a prosperous railroad hub located within fifty miles of the convergence of three State lines,
has been called "the small town that time forgot but people remember" because of its proximity to two thriving
small colleges. On December 16, 2013 at thirty-seven minutes after noon, the Saints & Scholars Bookstore in
Grand Depot disappeared from its longtime site on Main Street with seventeen customers and three staff persons
inside. There was left no trace of building (situated between Arneson's Bakery and L. G. Craft Hardware) or the
people inside. This year, after no communication and no warning, members of the vanishing party have begun
to return and to rejoin their respective families and loved ones. Following is the official record of their statements:
Father Chesterton:
I shall never forget the day, nor the time and the place. Of all businesses in Grand Depot, the Saints & Scholars
Bookstore and Connie's Coffee Pot have always been my favorites-- after, of course, St. Malachy's Church. I had
been to Connie's late that very morning after Mass, then onto the bookstore to buy some Christmas gift books
for my favorite parishioners and my favorite 94-year-old Mom, still a voracious reader and veracious defender
of her third son's vocational calling. Sometime after twelve-thirty, there descended over the bookstalls and
the book-stallers from their lunch hour a gray mist and music that could only have been Wolfgang Amadeus'
and-- poofff!-- all of us were transported into what I can only describe as an hermetically sealed cloud-canopied
hall with marble pillars and matching marbled floor. I need time to gather my thoughts about what happened
after that but, suffice it to say, that as one who has heard tens of thousands of confessions-- far fewer over the
last generation-- I learned things about myself that I myself was unaware, including the vast room for personal
improvement to be afforded by the vanquishing of these idiosyncratic encumbrances. Drop by St. Malachy's
someday after I have logged and catalogued my hazy remembrances of this unaccounted-for time in my life and
the lives of my fellow booklovers. I think you and I shall be in for a treat of the first fancy! Until that time, I am
deliriously happy to be back at St. Malachy's. I hope young Father Purcell, visiting from St. Matthew's in Curring
in my long absence, shares my enthusiasm if not my great relief to return for a second chance to right things that I
had let slip arrears.
EDITOR'S Note: As of this writing, seven members of the "Christmas Twenty" have magically returned to resume
their lives and reconstruct their ways. This editor was able to assemble all seven at the long back table at Connie's
over coffee, Danishes and orange juice last Saturday morning. The following are snippets of their conversation:
Jennifer Hall and son Dustin:
I will never forget mornings at the Marble Hall when we would all get together, just like this, before going on our daily
journeys through the judgment center. When I was a little girl, on my first visit to a funeral home and seeing Aunt Cora
laid in state, I wondered if behind that quiet repose, with her eyes closed and her slender hands clutching the Rosary,
I wondered if she couldn't really see all the folks visiting her and, if she could, did she want to reach out and assure everyone
that she was at peace and that everything was all right? Only she couldn't. I felt the same way up there. I could see
what was going on at home with Ron preparing supper after work and spending time with Dustin's baby sister Caroline.
I wanted to call out to them and say "Hey! I see you! We're all right!"
Dustin:
Mom, I know I've been hard on Caroline, because of all the attention she gets being the newest member of our
family, but the time we spent at the judgment center made me appreciate her so much that I'm going to change.
Father Chesterton:
Wonderful! Resolutions and not just for New Year's. I've got my own, Dustin. When I returned, I see they had
changed the church meeting hall's name to the Chesterton Center. Bosh! I am recommending it go back to being
what it was before: St. Malachy's Visitation Hall. Enough of all this worldly ambition for this graying old Pastor.
And forget about my being a Monsignor. I want to stay just an old-time priest like Bing Crosby in Going My Way.
At my age it's time I recognized I'm never going to ride in the Pope-Mobile!"
Brett Hansen:
At least all you guys were already settled. Look at me! I've been the manager of the Saints & Scholars Bookstore
for three-and-a-half years and I've gone with Cindy Kanifers for a year longer than that. I've been telling Cindy
we will marry when I finish my sprawling Western novel at night. Who knows how long that will take now?
No sir. Cindy and I are getting married in September.
Father Chesterton:
I hope it will be at St. Malachy's!
Brett:
Sorry, Father. We're both Lutherans. The wedding will be at St. Paul's-- but you'll be invited.
Father Chesterton:
And welcome, I hope?
Brett:
And most welcome, Father, especially if you can borrow that Pope-Mobile or one of those Vatican limos.
Clark Grafton:
You're all forgetting the two of us. Yes, we appear all settled.
Jackie Grafton:
Twenty-eight years of marriage would seem to qualify us.
Clark:
But it has not been easy. Not having children has made a difference. Not that we did not try.
Jackie:
Two miscarriages embittered us. It was after the second, Father, that matters changed. We still had our faith
but we had lost our faith in the power of prayer. The stay at the judgment hall made us re-think things. It put
things in perspective. Maybe there was a reason we were not to have children like you and Ron, Jennifer.
Jennifer:
What reason could that be?
Clark:
Maybe we were intended to watch over everyone else's children.
Father Chesterton:
You two have certainly done more volunteer and charitable work in Grand Depot than any other couple.
Carl Granger:
And I hope you'll be volunteering to keep me company on the Grand Depot Griffins sidelines this fall. A year and
a half away is far too long to be without my boys-- although maybe they haven't missed me that much, considering
they only lost one game last season in my absence.
Clark:
But it was the Championship Game.
Carl:
Thank you for pointing that little detail out, Clark. Thank you very much.
Second Chance Tales
Grand Depot, once a prosperous railroad hub located within fifty miles of the convergence of three State lines,
has been called "the small town that time forgot but people remember" because of its proximity to two thriving
small colleges. On December 16, 2013 at thirty-seven minutes after noon, the Saints & Scholars Bookstore in
Grand Depot disappeared from its longtime site on Main Street with seventeen customers and three staff persons
inside. There was left no trace of building (situated between Arneson's Bakery and L. G. Craft Hardware) or the
people inside. This year, after no communication and no warning, members of the vanishing party have begun
to return and to rejoin their respective families and loved ones. Following is the official record of their statements:
Father Chesterton:
I shall never forget the day, nor the time and the place. Of all businesses in Grand Depot, the Saints & Scholars
Bookstore and Connie's Coffee Pot have always been my favorites-- after, of course, St. Malachy's Church. I had
been to Connie's late that very morning after Mass, then onto the bookstore to buy some Christmas gift books
for my favorite parishioners and my favorite 94-year-old Mom, still a voracious reader and veracious defender
of her third son's vocational calling. Sometime after twelve-thirty, there descended over the bookstalls and
the book-stallers from their lunch hour a gray mist and music that could only have been Wolfgang Amadeus'
and-- poofff!-- all of us were transported into what I can only describe as an hermetically sealed cloud-canopied
hall with marble pillars and matching marbled floor. I need time to gather my thoughts about what happened
after that but, suffice it to say, that as one who has heard tens of thousands of confessions-- far fewer over the
last generation-- I learned things about myself that I myself was unaware, including the vast room for personal
improvement to be afforded by the vanquishing of these idiosyncratic encumbrances. Drop by St. Malachy's
someday after I have logged and catalogued my hazy remembrances of this unaccounted-for time in my life and
the lives of my fellow booklovers. I think you and I shall be in for a treat of the first fancy! Until that time, I am
deliriously happy to be back at St. Malachy's. I hope young Father Purcell, visiting from St. Matthew's in Curring
in my long absence, shares my enthusiasm if not my great relief to return for a second chance to right things that I
had let slip arrears.
EDITOR'S Note: As of this writing, seven members of the "Christmas Twenty" have magically returned to resume
their lives and reconstruct their ways. This editor was able to assemble all seven at the long back table at Connie's
over coffee, Danishes and orange juice last Saturday morning. The following are snippets of their conversation:
Jennifer Hall and son Dustin:
I will never forget mornings at the Marble Hall when we would all get together, just like this, before going on our daily
journeys through the judgment center. When I was a little girl, on my first visit to a funeral home and seeing Aunt Cora
laid in state, I wondered if behind that quiet repose, with her eyes closed and her slender hands clutching the Rosary,
I wondered if she couldn't really see all the folks visiting her and, if she could, did she want to reach out and assure everyone
that she was at peace and that everything was all right? Only she couldn't. I felt the same way up there. I could see
what was going on at home with Ron preparing supper after work and spending time with Dustin's baby sister Caroline.
I wanted to call out to them and say "Hey! I see you! We're all right!"
Dustin:
Mom, I know I've been hard on Caroline, because of all the attention she gets being the newest member of our
family, but the time we spent at the judgment center made me appreciate her so much that I'm going to change.
Father Chesterton:
Wonderful! Resolutions and not just for New Year's. I've got my own, Dustin. When I returned, I see they had
changed the church meeting hall's name to the Chesterton Center. Bosh! I am recommending it go back to being
what it was before: St. Malachy's Visitation Hall. Enough of all this worldly ambition for this graying old Pastor.
And forget about my being a Monsignor. I want to stay just an old-time priest like Bing Crosby in Going My Way.
At my age it's time I recognized I'm never going to ride in the Pope-Mobile!"
Brett Hansen:
At least all you guys were already settled. Look at me! I've been the manager of the Saints & Scholars Bookstore
for three-and-a-half years and I've gone with Cindy Kanifers for a year longer than that. I've been telling Cindy
we will marry when I finish my sprawling Western novel at night. Who knows how long that will take now?
No sir. Cindy and I are getting married in September.
Father Chesterton:
I hope it will be at St. Malachy's!
Brett:
Sorry, Father. We're both Lutherans. The wedding will be at St. Paul's-- but you'll be invited.
Father Chesterton:
And welcome, I hope?
Brett:
And most welcome, Father, especially if you can borrow that Pope-Mobile or one of those Vatican limos.
Clark Grafton:
You're all forgetting the two of us. Yes, we appear all settled.
Jackie Grafton:
Twenty-eight years of marriage would seem to qualify us.
Clark:
But it has not been easy. Not having children has made a difference. Not that we did not try.
Jackie:
Two miscarriages embittered us. It was after the second, Father, that matters changed. We still had our faith
but we had lost our faith in the power of prayer. The stay at the judgment hall made us re-think things. It put
things in perspective. Maybe there was a reason we were not to have children like you and Ron, Jennifer.
Jennifer:
What reason could that be?
Clark:
Maybe we were intended to watch over everyone else's children.
Father Chesterton:
You two have certainly done more volunteer and charitable work in Grand Depot than any other couple.
Carl Granger:
And I hope you'll be volunteering to keep me company on the Grand Depot Griffins sidelines this fall. A year and
a half away is far too long to be without my boys-- although maybe they haven't missed me that much, considering
they only lost one game last season in my absence.
Clark:
But it was the Championship Game.
Carl:
Thank you for pointing that little detail out, Clark. Thank you very much.
|
The Professor Returns
|
EDITOR'S Note: Following is a small portion of an interview with Robert Fowler, English professor at one
of the aforementioned two neighboring colleges, Preston & Ives. Mr. Fowler is the most recent returnee from
the vanishing "Christmas Twenty." He was found wandering somewhat dazedly by two joggers on a winding
trail of what he easily recognized to be Garrison Park which skirts Grand Depot and Curring.
Professor Fowler:
First, may I say that I am honored to give a spoken testimonial to Saints and Scholars of my otherworldly odyssey.
As a professor of English Literature and Creative Writing (with two text tomes published in the latter course) I suppose
I do qualify for the second moniker-- Scholar-- although it seems that I very nearly made the mark in the first as well
-- Saint-- if I read my judgment period accurately. And that's a fascinating aspect of it all. Like the rest, I was in the
bookstore when it happened. I had already selected two engaging gift books, one for my older sister Rita who I have felt
is even more scholarly than myself, and the other for Charlotte Vane, a second-year teacher at P & I in the same discipline
of scholarship as my own. When the miracle happened-- and indeed it was a miracle-- I had just picked up a small anthology
of Christmas mysteries for my own seasonal enjoyment. Then the mist and the Mozart descended over all of us and we
were, well, upstairs, which seems like a contradiction of your feature's title PurgaStories, because most of the time
our experience, when we compared notes in the morning and at supper time, seemed uniformly pleasant enough. If there
was a "purgatorial" sense about it all, it was when we separated after breakfast and were escorted by these dignified
personages in white robes of both genders-- may I call them Angels?-- and led individually along a wide down-sloping
concourse into what decidedly were scenes from our respective pasts of childhood, adolescence, adulthood. Never in any
predictable sequence. One day I was twelve again, arguing with Rita about the literary legacies of Dickens versus Jane
Austen; the next day, I was a first year instructor at Preston & Ives, doing my level best to jockey for survival amidst,
what I considered back then, a stodgy tenured faculty who were objecting to my curriculum reading list of new and
rule-breaking authors from here, across The Pond and Continental shores. If there was a measure of suffering in those
time travels backward it was of a sad, even melancholic nature that you were no longer twelve or twenty-four and never
would be again. The other difficult part, purgatorial facet if you will, of this singular event of being spirited away so
unexpectedly was getting glimpses of life down here with you no longer playing a part. For me, not being able to guest lecture
in Ms. Vane's freshman English class, or walk our scenic campus with a group of avid juniors or seniors debating Hemingway
versus Fitzgerald. (Both fine writers, but I have always maintained to my scholastic charges, especially those with
writing ambitions, to forget about authoring the "great American novel" because F. Scott had already written it with
The Great Gatsby.)
In any case, I hope I have not rambled too far afield and, like Father Chesterton before me, I look forward to compiling
my judgment period recollections in some cogent and, hopefully for visitors to Saints and Scholars, entertaining fashion.
of the aforementioned two neighboring colleges, Preston & Ives. Mr. Fowler is the most recent returnee from
the vanishing "Christmas Twenty." He was found wandering somewhat dazedly by two joggers on a winding
trail of what he easily recognized to be Garrison Park which skirts Grand Depot and Curring.
Professor Fowler:
First, may I say that I am honored to give a spoken testimonial to Saints and Scholars of my otherworldly odyssey.
As a professor of English Literature and Creative Writing (with two text tomes published in the latter course) I suppose
I do qualify for the second moniker-- Scholar-- although it seems that I very nearly made the mark in the first as well
-- Saint-- if I read my judgment period accurately. And that's a fascinating aspect of it all. Like the rest, I was in the
bookstore when it happened. I had already selected two engaging gift books, one for my older sister Rita who I have felt
is even more scholarly than myself, and the other for Charlotte Vane, a second-year teacher at P & I in the same discipline
of scholarship as my own. When the miracle happened-- and indeed it was a miracle-- I had just picked up a small anthology
of Christmas mysteries for my own seasonal enjoyment. Then the mist and the Mozart descended over all of us and we
were, well, upstairs, which seems like a contradiction of your feature's title PurgaStories, because most of the time
our experience, when we compared notes in the morning and at supper time, seemed uniformly pleasant enough. If there
was a "purgatorial" sense about it all, it was when we separated after breakfast and were escorted by these dignified
personages in white robes of both genders-- may I call them Angels?-- and led individually along a wide down-sloping
concourse into what decidedly were scenes from our respective pasts of childhood, adolescence, adulthood. Never in any
predictable sequence. One day I was twelve again, arguing with Rita about the literary legacies of Dickens versus Jane
Austen; the next day, I was a first year instructor at Preston & Ives, doing my level best to jockey for survival amidst,
what I considered back then, a stodgy tenured faculty who were objecting to my curriculum reading list of new and
rule-breaking authors from here, across The Pond and Continental shores. If there was a measure of suffering in those
time travels backward it was of a sad, even melancholic nature that you were no longer twelve or twenty-four and never
would be again. The other difficult part, purgatorial facet if you will, of this singular event of being spirited away so
unexpectedly was getting glimpses of life down here with you no longer playing a part. For me, not being able to guest lecture
in Ms. Vane's freshman English class, or walk our scenic campus with a group of avid juniors or seniors debating Hemingway
versus Fitzgerald. (Both fine writers, but I have always maintained to my scholastic charges, especially those with
writing ambitions, to forget about authoring the "great American novel" because F. Scott had already written it with
The Great Gatsby.)
In any case, I hope I have not rambled too far afield and, like Father Chesterton before me, I look forward to compiling
my judgment period recollections in some cogent and, hopefully for visitors to Saints and Scholars, entertaining fashion.
|
Allison and the Bookstore:
A Reappearance |
EDITOR'S Note: Today, sometime before 6 AM-- when Arneson's Bakery opens-- Saints & Scholars
Bookstore reappeared (without a book out of place) between the bakery and L. G. Craft Hardware. Inside
was Allison Keyne, part-time bookseller and full-time student at Preston & Ives College. Allison was
holding the same book (The Cat Who Loved Me) she had been gift-wrapping when the bookstore
de-materialized on December 16, 2013. This site hopes to interview Ms. Keyne when she has
sufficiently recovered from the shock of her reappearance and the disturbing continued absence of
boyfriend Martin Prudent, fellow student at P & I and seasonal bookseller. Prayers are requested
by Allison and his own family for Martin's prompt and safe return.
Allison Keyne:
I apologize for being slow getting back to you. Have you heard any word about Martin yet? It consumes
my every waking minute. You see, I do not share everyone else's wonder about what happened to all of
us that day. Everything about the experience, from morning until rest at night was unsettling. I purposely
did not use the term sleep. I had little of that. And the experiences during the day including looking back
into my life were largely negative. It seems to me that most of the flashbacks were of a grim confessional
tone. I do not have to be told that I have not been perfect. None of us are. I remember very well how
I snubbed that pretty new girl in my junior year in high school. She had designs on Martin and I did not
like that at all. Nor do I have to be reminded that as a growing girl I often would "inform" on my younger
brother when he did something wrong. Look how he's turned out now-- wherever he is. He left home the
summer before the bookstore vanishing act and my parents have not seen or heard from him since. He's probably
in California somewhere. And speaking of my mother and father, they have been growing far apart for years.
When I walked in the front door upon my return, they were both delighted to see me, but in a separate sense.
It wasn't as though we were one happy family again. If anything, they seem more alienated from each other
than when I left. No, there was nothing redeeming to me about the entire experience. Even though Martin
and I were together in the evenings and early mornings before we were called down the concourse by ourselves,
the whole time that I was gone was just as your feature title suggests: purgatorial.
If you hear anything about Martin, anything at all, please contact me at once.
December 16, 2013:
Explanation of a Sort
EDITOR'S Note:
On a day in 1943, the U. S. S. Eldridge disappeared into a fog from the Philadelphia naval shipyard. Within seconds,
the manned destroyer escort materialized in another shipyard in Norfolk, Virginia, then reappeared at the original site!
The startling incident is often called The Philadelphia Experiment, theorized to have been some type of top-secret
government test of a time travel project. On December 16, 2013, the Saints & Scholars Bookstore vanished into thin air
from its longtime foundation in Grand Depot. A private pilot named Ryan Harwood flying a classic Piper Cub out of
his own charter service called Vintage Skies from Brookside Airfield with a businessman aboard, Mr. Clark Weathers,
reported having seen nine silvery disks flitting over the vicinity of the Grand Depot business district at approximately
12:35 in early afternoon. Both men have documented their sighting with aeronautical and law enforcement authorities.
Their eyewitness accounts eerily mirror the sighting of Kenneth Arnold, also a civilian pilot and businessman, who saw the
identical number of "shiny silver plates" maneuvering in and out of the Cascade Mountain range in Washington State
on June 24, 1947. Mr. Arnold's report spawned the term "flying saucer" and launched the UFO mystery that has puzzled
us to this day. Interestingly, however, Father Chesterton has postulated that the Grand Depot saucers were of extraterrestrial
origin, but of a heavenly nature-- that is, "angels" sent from a higher authority!
Bookstore reappeared (without a book out of place) between the bakery and L. G. Craft Hardware. Inside
was Allison Keyne, part-time bookseller and full-time student at Preston & Ives College. Allison was
holding the same book (The Cat Who Loved Me) she had been gift-wrapping when the bookstore
de-materialized on December 16, 2013. This site hopes to interview Ms. Keyne when she has
sufficiently recovered from the shock of her reappearance and the disturbing continued absence of
boyfriend Martin Prudent, fellow student at P & I and seasonal bookseller. Prayers are requested
by Allison and his own family for Martin's prompt and safe return.
Allison Keyne:
I apologize for being slow getting back to you. Have you heard any word about Martin yet? It consumes
my every waking minute. You see, I do not share everyone else's wonder about what happened to all of
us that day. Everything about the experience, from morning until rest at night was unsettling. I purposely
did not use the term sleep. I had little of that. And the experiences during the day including looking back
into my life were largely negative. It seems to me that most of the flashbacks were of a grim confessional
tone. I do not have to be told that I have not been perfect. None of us are. I remember very well how
I snubbed that pretty new girl in my junior year in high school. She had designs on Martin and I did not
like that at all. Nor do I have to be reminded that as a growing girl I often would "inform" on my younger
brother when he did something wrong. Look how he's turned out now-- wherever he is. He left home the
summer before the bookstore vanishing act and my parents have not seen or heard from him since. He's probably
in California somewhere. And speaking of my mother and father, they have been growing far apart for years.
When I walked in the front door upon my return, they were both delighted to see me, but in a separate sense.
It wasn't as though we were one happy family again. If anything, they seem more alienated from each other
than when I left. No, there was nothing redeeming to me about the entire experience. Even though Martin
and I were together in the evenings and early mornings before we were called down the concourse by ourselves,
the whole time that I was gone was just as your feature title suggests: purgatorial.
If you hear anything about Martin, anything at all, please contact me at once.
December 16, 2013:
Explanation of a Sort
EDITOR'S Note:
On a day in 1943, the U. S. S. Eldridge disappeared into a fog from the Philadelphia naval shipyard. Within seconds,
the manned destroyer escort materialized in another shipyard in Norfolk, Virginia, then reappeared at the original site!
The startling incident is often called The Philadelphia Experiment, theorized to have been some type of top-secret
government test of a time travel project. On December 16, 2013, the Saints & Scholars Bookstore vanished into thin air
from its longtime foundation in Grand Depot. A private pilot named Ryan Harwood flying a classic Piper Cub out of
his own charter service called Vintage Skies from Brookside Airfield with a businessman aboard, Mr. Clark Weathers,
reported having seen nine silvery disks flitting over the vicinity of the Grand Depot business district at approximately
12:35 in early afternoon. Both men have documented their sighting with aeronautical and law enforcement authorities.
Their eyewitness accounts eerily mirror the sighting of Kenneth Arnold, also a civilian pilot and businessman, who saw the
identical number of "shiny silver plates" maneuvering in and out of the Cascade Mountain range in Washington State
on June 24, 1947. Mr. Arnold's report spawned the term "flying saucer" and launched the UFO mystery that has puzzled
us to this day. Interestingly, however, Father Chesterton has postulated that the Grand Depot saucers were of extraterrestrial
origin, but of a heavenly nature-- that is, "angels" sent from a higher authority!
|
The Long Ride of Martin Prudent
|
Martin Prudent:
Okay, I will talk but I warn you. It's different for me, even more so than Allison Keyne who claims to know me
well. Of all of the returnees, I am probably the only one who is a self-avowed agnostic. I consider myself a person
who weighs matters thoroughly before he makes a judgment. I do not say emphatically that there is no God. I only
assert that I have not in my hectic, varied and sometimes confused twenty-two years had sufficient time to give the
matter much deliberation. I have always put that research-gathering off for when I am older or old enough to take
a breath and give the equation more scrutiny.
What happened December 16, 2013 did not give me the epiphany that everyone seems to think it should have. Where
I was, what I was doing there, or how long I was there, I have not the smallest shadow of a clue. I know that it seems
like an eternity and that I was there with a girl roughly my age. Who she was I do not know or even remember. I've read
this Allison is claiming that she has known me for years, since high school, even elementary grades possibly. Maybe
she has; maybe she hasn't. I only am cognizant of this: That I was picked up by a nice old fellow in a nice old Ford
pickup on a road well outside of Grand Depot. He seemed to know the town well and the people in it. When I told
him my name-- that I remember-- he was certain that I was related to Helen Prudent. He took me to her well-kept small
house just inside the town limits and I seemed to have some recollection of it and also of the woman there who broke
down and cried when she saw me. I was so moved by her tears that I had only one course to pursue and that was to
play along so as not to destroy her absolute certainty that I am her son. To her credit and to her credibility, I seemed
to know "my room". Maybe it will all come back. I hope that it does.
As for this Allison Keyne. I do not recall her and have no wish to see her until I am ready.
Okay, I will talk but I warn you. It's different for me, even more so than Allison Keyne who claims to know me
well. Of all of the returnees, I am probably the only one who is a self-avowed agnostic. I consider myself a person
who weighs matters thoroughly before he makes a judgment. I do not say emphatically that there is no God. I only
assert that I have not in my hectic, varied and sometimes confused twenty-two years had sufficient time to give the
matter much deliberation. I have always put that research-gathering off for when I am older or old enough to take
a breath and give the equation more scrutiny.
What happened December 16, 2013 did not give me the epiphany that everyone seems to think it should have. Where
I was, what I was doing there, or how long I was there, I have not the smallest shadow of a clue. I know that it seems
like an eternity and that I was there with a girl roughly my age. Who she was I do not know or even remember. I've read
this Allison is claiming that she has known me for years, since high school, even elementary grades possibly. Maybe
she has; maybe she hasn't. I only am cognizant of this: That I was picked up by a nice old fellow in a nice old Ford
pickup on a road well outside of Grand Depot. He seemed to know the town well and the people in it. When I told
him my name-- that I remember-- he was certain that I was related to Helen Prudent. He took me to her well-kept small
house just inside the town limits and I seemed to have some recollection of it and also of the woman there who broke
down and cried when she saw me. I was so moved by her tears that I had only one course to pursue and that was to
play along so as not to destroy her absolute certainty that I am her son. To her credit and to her credibility, I seemed
to know "my room". Maybe it will all come back. I hope that it does.
As for this Allison Keyne. I do not recall her and have no wish to see her until I am ready.
|
The Editor Assesses
|
EDITOR:
The Grand Depot enigma continues unabated and much debated. Is it a mystical experience or a genuine
afterlife awakening and reawakening? Or is it an alien abduction case replete with silvery saucers? You
will not find the answer in my copious notes. If I am ever able to compile and thoroughly chronicle the
before and after of incidents and resulting effects, maybe you will have to read all about it in a book called--
what would I call it? The Strange Case of Grand Depot? Or PurgaStories: True Tales from the Other Side?
But how can I ever hope to tell the whole story when, by my count and Father Chesterton's, only ten of the
"Bookstore Twenty" are accounted for? Until they have all returned, how can I expect to analyze their
individual recollections? Already, I am amazed at the wide range of reactions from the existing ten
returnees. Why do some look upon their singular journeys as being worthwhile while others like Allison
and Martin harbor deep-seated resentment from being plucked out of their normal day to day lives? And
why does Allison remember Martin while he has no memory of her? Talk about a complex assortment!
But let me make this sincere appeal to readers: If you have any theories of what's taken place and continues
to play out in little Grand Depot, I would welcome hearing from you. Please write and right away. This
editor would welcome any hypothesis short of comic book lunacy.
And maybe even some of those may not be discarded out of hand!
EDITOR'S Note:
I have not been the only one exercising my freedom of conjecture. The following is a short excerpt of a
conversation at Connie's between those two sage scholars, Father Chesterton and Professor Fowler. It
is recorded here verbatim except for the clinking of coffee cups and silverware.
Professor Fowler:
There is a Cathedral prayer card on the homepage of this website that starts "Lord, Bless the Memories"
which speaks of us being reunited with loved ones in Heaven. Is that dogma in your opinion, Father?
Father Chesterton:
My personal take? Well, there is actual Scripture that disputes that, saying that such reunion will not be
of any necessity in the Presence of God once we get there. If we get there. But like allegorical passages
of the Old Testament that are not to be taken literally, or as being dogmatic, I tend to believe and hope
that I will be seeing my deceased Dad and aunts and uncles if I should leave here before my dear Mother
and the rest of her children. Indeed, it appears that I almost did in December of 2013!
Professor Fowler:
And you do believe in Purgatory?
Father Chesterton:
I do. As an atonement stop, yes.
Professor Fowler:
I hope that you are unerring about that, Father.
Father Chesterton:
I pray that I am. Even pastors need reparations.
Professor Fowler:
(LAUGHS) I hear you. I know academics do. But, if I may, allow me to hypothesize about Purgatory.
Father Chesterton:
Connie's is a place of the indubitable right of free expression. (CHUCKLES)
Professor Fowler:
Well, depending upon your behavior here, what if one's personal sentence in Purgatory lasts as long as
your life on Earth?
Father Chesterton:
Then I believe we should both have a third cup of coffee here to digest that sobering theory of yours!
The Grand Depot enigma continues unabated and much debated. Is it a mystical experience or a genuine
afterlife awakening and reawakening? Or is it an alien abduction case replete with silvery saucers? You
will not find the answer in my copious notes. If I am ever able to compile and thoroughly chronicle the
before and after of incidents and resulting effects, maybe you will have to read all about it in a book called--
what would I call it? The Strange Case of Grand Depot? Or PurgaStories: True Tales from the Other Side?
But how can I ever hope to tell the whole story when, by my count and Father Chesterton's, only ten of the
"Bookstore Twenty" are accounted for? Until they have all returned, how can I expect to analyze their
individual recollections? Already, I am amazed at the wide range of reactions from the existing ten
returnees. Why do some look upon their singular journeys as being worthwhile while others like Allison
and Martin harbor deep-seated resentment from being plucked out of their normal day to day lives? And
why does Allison remember Martin while he has no memory of her? Talk about a complex assortment!
But let me make this sincere appeal to readers: If you have any theories of what's taken place and continues
to play out in little Grand Depot, I would welcome hearing from you. Please write and right away. This
editor would welcome any hypothesis short of comic book lunacy.
And maybe even some of those may not be discarded out of hand!
EDITOR'S Note:
I have not been the only one exercising my freedom of conjecture. The following is a short excerpt of a
conversation at Connie's between those two sage scholars, Father Chesterton and Professor Fowler. It
is recorded here verbatim except for the clinking of coffee cups and silverware.
Professor Fowler:
There is a Cathedral prayer card on the homepage of this website that starts "Lord, Bless the Memories"
which speaks of us being reunited with loved ones in Heaven. Is that dogma in your opinion, Father?
Father Chesterton:
My personal take? Well, there is actual Scripture that disputes that, saying that such reunion will not be
of any necessity in the Presence of God once we get there. If we get there. But like allegorical passages
of the Old Testament that are not to be taken literally, or as being dogmatic, I tend to believe and hope
that I will be seeing my deceased Dad and aunts and uncles if I should leave here before my dear Mother
and the rest of her children. Indeed, it appears that I almost did in December of 2013!
Professor Fowler:
And you do believe in Purgatory?
Father Chesterton:
I do. As an atonement stop, yes.
Professor Fowler:
I hope that you are unerring about that, Father.
Father Chesterton:
I pray that I am. Even pastors need reparations.
Professor Fowler:
(LAUGHS) I hear you. I know academics do. But, if I may, allow me to hypothesize about Purgatory.
Father Chesterton:
Connie's is a place of the indubitable right of free expression. (CHUCKLES)
Professor Fowler:
Well, depending upon your behavior here, what if one's personal sentence in Purgatory lasts as long as
your life on Earth?
Father Chesterton:
Then I believe we should both have a third cup of coffee here to digest that sobering theory of yours!
BULLETIN: Along Comes Number Eleven
EDITOR'S Note:
Reed Carter-Randolph III has surfaced nearly six hundred miles away outside the Detroit Main Library on Woodward
Avenue, reawakening behind the wheel of his Buick with still seven minutes left upon the parking meter! Mr. Carter-
Randolph is a third generation graduate of Preston & Ives College. (His grandfather was the first African American
to receive an advanced degree in Business Administration from P & I.) As a national sales manager for the CarPartners
automotive parts and accessories chain, Reed was passing through Grand Depot on December 16, 2013 when he stopped
for lunch and to do some shopping for gift books at the Saints & Scholars Bookstore. Upon his reemergence this week,
he called this writer and has promised to drop by Connie's Coffee Pot on his next business trip through Grand Depot.
EDITOR'S Note of 8:08 PM same day: To my surprise and delight, Mr. Carter-Randolph has e-mailed back.
Reed:
I did not realize how big a story this has become. When I went on the internet early evening I discovered that
the search engines are full of entries on the incidents of December 16th, 2013. For that reason I felt I owed you
and my fellow bookstore travelers a brief explanation of my current whereabouts and observations long before
I have the pleasure of meeting with them at Connie's Coffee Pot, whenever that might be.
Let me start off by telling a little about myself. My grandfather, a banker, was the business and financial brain
of the family tree. My father was the engineering genius lurking in that same tree, having worked for two of
the Big Three and providing well for his brood of six children and our loving mother. Me, I have had two
passions in my life and they have been people and automobiles, automobiles and people. On the people count,
I have been one of those rare persons you hear about who fall in love with their high school sweetheart and
remain in love ever after. Doreen was the love of my life, is the love of my life and always will be for the
rest of my born days. The tragedy about it is that Doreen was struck down by a hit-and-run driver in a green
Oldsmobile by random accounts when we had only been married a year and a half. She was struck within a
block of where she grew up and two blocks of where I grew up in the Livernois and Fenkel area of Detroit.
They never did find the driver of the green Olds and we two never did get the chance to grow even closer than
we already were and we never did get a chance to start that family of ours. To shorten the story, I have thrown
myself into my work, the work I love, the selling and distribution of car parts, ever since.
Until I awoke outside the Main Library, where I spend a lot of time researching automobile history (there and
at their amazing automobile collection at the downtown Skillman Branch), I was one of those "Bookstore
Twenty" you have read about. Getting up early and coming back late to join the others and in between--
in between wandering solo down the gray concourse looking for purpose, looking in vain for my dear, dear
Doreen and, yes, looking for that damn driver of the green Olds who changed my life on earth forever.
I still look forward to coffee and Danish with all of you when I am next passing through Grand Depot.
EDITOR'S Note:
Reed Carter-Randolph III has surfaced nearly six hundred miles away outside the Detroit Main Library on Woodward
Avenue, reawakening behind the wheel of his Buick with still seven minutes left upon the parking meter! Mr. Carter-
Randolph is a third generation graduate of Preston & Ives College. (His grandfather was the first African American
to receive an advanced degree in Business Administration from P & I.) As a national sales manager for the CarPartners
automotive parts and accessories chain, Reed was passing through Grand Depot on December 16, 2013 when he stopped
for lunch and to do some shopping for gift books at the Saints & Scholars Bookstore. Upon his reemergence this week,
he called this writer and has promised to drop by Connie's Coffee Pot on his next business trip through Grand Depot.
EDITOR'S Note of 8:08 PM same day: To my surprise and delight, Mr. Carter-Randolph has e-mailed back.
Reed:
I did not realize how big a story this has become. When I went on the internet early evening I discovered that
the search engines are full of entries on the incidents of December 16th, 2013. For that reason I felt I owed you
and my fellow bookstore travelers a brief explanation of my current whereabouts and observations long before
I have the pleasure of meeting with them at Connie's Coffee Pot, whenever that might be.
Let me start off by telling a little about myself. My grandfather, a banker, was the business and financial brain
of the family tree. My father was the engineering genius lurking in that same tree, having worked for two of
the Big Three and providing well for his brood of six children and our loving mother. Me, I have had two
passions in my life and they have been people and automobiles, automobiles and people. On the people count,
I have been one of those rare persons you hear about who fall in love with their high school sweetheart and
remain in love ever after. Doreen was the love of my life, is the love of my life and always will be for the
rest of my born days. The tragedy about it is that Doreen was struck down by a hit-and-run driver in a green
Oldsmobile by random accounts when we had only been married a year and a half. She was struck within a
block of where she grew up and two blocks of where I grew up in the Livernois and Fenkel area of Detroit.
They never did find the driver of the green Olds and we two never did get the chance to grow even closer than
we already were and we never did get a chance to start that family of ours. To shorten the story, I have thrown
myself into my work, the work I love, the selling and distribution of car parts, ever since.
Until I awoke outside the Main Library, where I spend a lot of time researching automobile history (there and
at their amazing automobile collection at the downtown Skillman Branch), I was one of those "Bookstore
Twenty" you have read about. Getting up early and coming back late to join the others and in between--
in between wandering solo down the gray concourse looking for purpose, looking in vain for my dear, dear
Doreen and, yes, looking for that damn driver of the green Olds who changed my life on earth forever.
I still look forward to coffee and Danish with all of you when I am next passing through Grand Depot.
________________________________________________________________________________________________
Breakfast Without Breakthrough
EDITOR'S Note:
Father Chesterton got Allison Keyne and Martin Prudent together for breakfast at Connie's today with semi-
successful results. As moderator of the affair, he had prepped Allison not to push the memories issue and she
did not. Martin seemed to have excellent recall of their school days at Constitution High and Preston & Ives,
but not of knowing her specifically. There was flash recognizance, Father C. reports, when she ordered him
a cinnamon bagel (his favorite) instead of one of Connie's "Famous Danishes", but it did not develop from there.
A pleasant repast but no breakthrough event. Still, to allay the good pastor's fears that perhaps Martin had bumped
his head in flight or landing from his purgatorial trip, Prudent computed the three tabs including tax in four seconds
flat without calculator or computer, a facility he often showed off at the Saints and Scholars Bookstore (where she
has returned to work and he has not). I offered to reimburse Father C. for the restaurant bill but he just laughed
and said he was having too good a time not to pay the freight for his "frolic".
The "semi" successful aspect of it was that Martin did seem to like Allison. A start toward starting over, as
Father Chesterton puts it.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
Breakfast Without Breakthrough
EDITOR'S Note:
Father Chesterton got Allison Keyne and Martin Prudent together for breakfast at Connie's today with semi-
successful results. As moderator of the affair, he had prepped Allison not to push the memories issue and she
did not. Martin seemed to have excellent recall of their school days at Constitution High and Preston & Ives,
but not of knowing her specifically. There was flash recognizance, Father C. reports, when she ordered him
a cinnamon bagel (his favorite) instead of one of Connie's "Famous Danishes", but it did not develop from there.
A pleasant repast but no breakthrough event. Still, to allay the good pastor's fears that perhaps Martin had bumped
his head in flight or landing from his purgatorial trip, Prudent computed the three tabs including tax in four seconds
flat without calculator or computer, a facility he often showed off at the Saints and Scholars Bookstore (where she
has returned to work and he has not). I offered to reimburse Father C. for the restaurant bill but he just laughed
and said he was having too good a time not to pay the freight for his "frolic".
The "semi" successful aspect of it was that Martin did seem to like Allison. A start toward starting over, as
Father Chesterton puts it.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
|
When It Rings
|
EDITOR:
When the phone rings around here, it purrs that low, staccato tiger growl. On Monday, this Monday morning, it
growled at me three times in thirty-seven minutes. First call: one of my favorite of the returning "Twenty", Coach
Carl Granger invites me to the annual Grand Depot High School Green & Gold intra-squad football game. He tells
me that his players have given to calling him "the coach of the living dead"; his quick retort is that the nickname is
accurate since their listless practice sessions upon his return to the sidelines have "me coaching a bunch of zombies".
Next call, another favorite: sometimes saint/full-time scholar Professor Fowler informs me that he returned to the site
of his debarkation point, Garrison Park, for a twilight walk Sunday and actually sensed an eerie feeling of deja vu.
So unsettling that he would not venture a visit after dark anytime soon. He said there was the unmistakable presence
of someone or "something" watching him the entire time. I told him that it makes me want to try just that, maybe
even a midnight visit. Less than two minutes after we talked, the young pilot Ryan Harwood of Vintage Skies phoned
to notify me that, returning last night from a Chicago charter, he saw lights flitting through the trees in the woods of--
good guess-- Garrison Park! Now I know I want to chance that nocturnal sojourn. Intrepid? Insipid? You make the call.
When the phone rings around here, it purrs that low, staccato tiger growl. On Monday, this Monday morning, it
growled at me three times in thirty-seven minutes. First call: one of my favorite of the returning "Twenty", Coach
Carl Granger invites me to the annual Grand Depot High School Green & Gold intra-squad football game. He tells
me that his players have given to calling him "the coach of the living dead"; his quick retort is that the nickname is
accurate since their listless practice sessions upon his return to the sidelines have "me coaching a bunch of zombies".
Next call, another favorite: sometimes saint/full-time scholar Professor Fowler informs me that he returned to the site
of his debarkation point, Garrison Park, for a twilight walk Sunday and actually sensed an eerie feeling of deja vu.
So unsettling that he would not venture a visit after dark anytime soon. He said there was the unmistakable presence
of someone or "something" watching him the entire time. I told him that it makes me want to try just that, maybe
even a midnight visit. Less than two minutes after we talked, the young pilot Ryan Harwood of Vintage Skies phoned
to notify me that, returning last night from a Chicago charter, he saw lights flitting through the trees in the woods of--
good guess-- Garrison Park! Now I know I want to chance that nocturnal sojourn. Intrepid? Insipid? You make the call.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Martin Prudent Disappears Again
EDITOR:
The Mystery of Martin Prudent or, more specifically, his lost memory, took another turn today when I received a call
from his erstwhile girlfriend, Allison Keyne. Allison apprised me of the note (on Saints & Scholars Bookstore stationery)
that was placed inside her door today. It read: It was nice meeting with you and Father Chesterton over breakfast.
I am sorry that I have disappointed all of you, including the woman who claims to be my mother. Perhaps the purgatorial
experience, as everyone seems to describe it, affected me more acutely than it did the rest. In any case, I am going away
for awhile. I do not know how long it will take, but I feel in some way that I must recover and reclaim myself. If I do,
maybe all the rest will come back to me as it does oftentimes to an amnesiac patient. Again, I am sorry, Allison.
Allison said she read and re-read the note before she discovered something of a telltale nature, not unlike her order of
his cinnamon bagel which seemed to surprise him at Connie's Coffee Pot. Twice in the note, Martin uses the word "all".
However, close scrutiny of the final sign-off reveals that the two ll's in "Allison" show that pair pinched together like
back-to-back (upright) slash-signs, as in //. It is always the way he printed her name. She does not think she imagines it.
Now she is wondering if the extended memory loss is a fabrication and something for which she is to blame for "crowding"
him and not allowing him "breathing space" after they have known each other so long. Has Martin seized upon a way to
win his "freedom" from her and perhaps his whole existence prior to his time in "purgatory"? By his own admission, his
life has been "confused". If that is the case, then I feel it is a cowardly way to go about it. Write and tell me what you think.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Martin Prudent Disappears Again
EDITOR:
The Mystery of Martin Prudent or, more specifically, his lost memory, took another turn today when I received a call
from his erstwhile girlfriend, Allison Keyne. Allison apprised me of the note (on Saints & Scholars Bookstore stationery)
that was placed inside her door today. It read: It was nice meeting with you and Father Chesterton over breakfast.
I am sorry that I have disappointed all of you, including the woman who claims to be my mother. Perhaps the purgatorial
experience, as everyone seems to describe it, affected me more acutely than it did the rest. In any case, I am going away
for awhile. I do not know how long it will take, but I feel in some way that I must recover and reclaim myself. If I do,
maybe all the rest will come back to me as it does oftentimes to an amnesiac patient. Again, I am sorry, Allison.
Allison said she read and re-read the note before she discovered something of a telltale nature, not unlike her order of
his cinnamon bagel which seemed to surprise him at Connie's Coffee Pot. Twice in the note, Martin uses the word "all".
However, close scrutiny of the final sign-off reveals that the two ll's in "Allison" show that pair pinched together like
back-to-back (upright) slash-signs, as in //. It is always the way he printed her name. She does not think she imagines it.
Now she is wondering if the extended memory loss is a fabrication and something for which she is to blame for "crowding"
him and not allowing him "breathing space" after they have known each other so long. Has Martin seized upon a way to
win his "freedom" from her and perhaps his whole existence prior to his time in "purgatory"? By his own admission, his
life has been "confused". If that is the case, then I feel it is a cowardly way to go about it. Write and tell me what you think.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
The following is an excerpt from CUM LAUDE, The Scholarly Evening Post:
_______________________________________________
_______________________________________________
_______________________________________________
The Day After by Philip T. Dattilo
The Day After by Philip T. Dattilo
Life and Death in Garrison Park
by David Kinchen
Why did John Kennedy and John Lennon leave life as early as they did? Why did
St. Teresa of Lisieux, the Little Flower, and Marilyn Monroe depart as soon as they
did? It is the age-old question that was not likely to be answered by this writer but
that, remarkably enough, was what I was subconsciously trying to find out when I set
my alarm clock for eleven o'clock that late-summer night. On December 16, 2013,
twenty people vanished from the Saints & Scholars Bookstore in Grand Depot.
The bookstore went with them! Twenty customers and staff leaving this planet as
prematurely as Martin Luther King, Jr. or James Dean. Even more startling was that,
less than a year and a half later, eleven of them had started to resurface, as did the cozy
bookstore itself! One of them, a Professor Fowler of Preston & Ives College, had
returned to the site of his re-materialization, Garrison Park on the boundary of Grand
Depot, and this night I had determined to investigate. And where Fowler had been
reticent about coming back, especially in noir night, for fear of imaginings unspoken,
I was bumbling forth at midnight. I had parked my car at the entrance to the jogging
track and was slowly making my cautious way ahead, my eyes forward through the
tree-lined path and, too, overhead where a young charter pilot had seen mysterious
lights darting in and out of the elms and oaks a few nights before. Not fifty yards in,
the clear star-studded sky crackled like summer lightning and searchlight-like stabs
issued forth, slashing me like paint-balls. I hit the cinder track and covered my eyes and
began questioning my own sanity for following a story folder-full of obvious warnings
and deathly deterrents. Was I ready to join those nine poor souls who had never come
back, who were trapped without reason in their own purgatories? Was my own life so
well-ordered and without compunction for deeds accountable? I clenched my eyes shut
as the lights danced over me. What in heaven's name had I been thinking? And then,
the lights stopped and I heard whisperings? The first thought that invaded my head was:
Were these the alien beings coming to abduct me? Or were these the angels of light or
darkness arriving to claim their fitting soul, sentencing it to eternity above or below?
I opened my eyes where I lay and saw with the faint light of moon-glow and star-shine,
legs, feet, silhouettes-- in December overcoats. I counted nine pairs of legs, eighteen
feet, women's and men's, and even began to recognize a few fellow haunters of the Saints
& Scholars bookstalls. As they gathered around me in awe and wonder, I rose, dusted
myself off and asked-- I asked if they would not like to join me this coming day for
java and Danish at Connie's Coffee Pot.
We had a lot to talk about.
by David Kinchen
Why did John Kennedy and John Lennon leave life as early as they did? Why did
St. Teresa of Lisieux, the Little Flower, and Marilyn Monroe depart as soon as they
did? It is the age-old question that was not likely to be answered by this writer but
that, remarkably enough, was what I was subconsciously trying to find out when I set
my alarm clock for eleven o'clock that late-summer night. On December 16, 2013,
twenty people vanished from the Saints & Scholars Bookstore in Grand Depot.
The bookstore went with them! Twenty customers and staff leaving this planet as
prematurely as Martin Luther King, Jr. or James Dean. Even more startling was that,
less than a year and a half later, eleven of them had started to resurface, as did the cozy
bookstore itself! One of them, a Professor Fowler of Preston & Ives College, had
returned to the site of his re-materialization, Garrison Park on the boundary of Grand
Depot, and this night I had determined to investigate. And where Fowler had been
reticent about coming back, especially in noir night, for fear of imaginings unspoken,
I was bumbling forth at midnight. I had parked my car at the entrance to the jogging
track and was slowly making my cautious way ahead, my eyes forward through the
tree-lined path and, too, overhead where a young charter pilot had seen mysterious
lights darting in and out of the elms and oaks a few nights before. Not fifty yards in,
the clear star-studded sky crackled like summer lightning and searchlight-like stabs
issued forth, slashing me like paint-balls. I hit the cinder track and covered my eyes and
began questioning my own sanity for following a story folder-full of obvious warnings
and deathly deterrents. Was I ready to join those nine poor souls who had never come
back, who were trapped without reason in their own purgatories? Was my own life so
well-ordered and without compunction for deeds accountable? I clenched my eyes shut
as the lights danced over me. What in heaven's name had I been thinking? And then,
the lights stopped and I heard whisperings? The first thought that invaded my head was:
Were these the alien beings coming to abduct me? Or were these the angels of light or
darkness arriving to claim their fitting soul, sentencing it to eternity above or below?
I opened my eyes where I lay and saw with the faint light of moon-glow and star-shine,
legs, feet, silhouettes-- in December overcoats. I counted nine pairs of legs, eighteen
feet, women's and men's, and even began to recognize a few fellow haunters of the Saints
& Scholars bookstalls. As they gathered around me in awe and wonder, I rose, dusted
myself off and asked-- I asked if they would not like to join me this coming day for
java and Danish at Connie's Coffee Pot.
We had a lot to talk about.
E P I L O G U E
The balance of the missing twenty have returned to their lives, later than the others, but with similar yet singular
stories to tell of their life-after-death experiences. The recurring motifs of morning dispatch and evening return,
with long gray concourses and longer solo meanderings in between, replete with reminisce and regret for deeds
done, undone and not done at all. A few of the final nine have elected not to talk, others have accepted my invite
for coffee and morning repast but with the stated caveat that their names not be used. I have come to reconcile
my journalistic curiosities about these and all of their bookstore brethren. Their personal journeys into the unknown,
what they have had taken away from them, their families, their friends, their fellow work colleagues, is something that
can only be understood by them. No amount of diligent reportage could ever hope to fathom what they have been
through and what they will continue to feel upon their acclimation to their previous lives. I only know that I feel
privileged to have recorded what I have transcribed in this small log of enigmatic and often heart-seared recollections.
I feel honored, too, to have shared them with you, the readers and faithful visitors to Saints & Scholars.
David Kinchen,
Editor, PurgaStories
The balance of the missing twenty have returned to their lives, later than the others, but with similar yet singular
stories to tell of their life-after-death experiences. The recurring motifs of morning dispatch and evening return,
with long gray concourses and longer solo meanderings in between, replete with reminisce and regret for deeds
done, undone and not done at all. A few of the final nine have elected not to talk, others have accepted my invite
for coffee and morning repast but with the stated caveat that their names not be used. I have come to reconcile
my journalistic curiosities about these and all of their bookstore brethren. Their personal journeys into the unknown,
what they have had taken away from them, their families, their friends, their fellow work colleagues, is something that
can only be understood by them. No amount of diligent reportage could ever hope to fathom what they have been
through and what they will continue to feel upon their acclimation to their previous lives. I only know that I feel
privileged to have recorded what I have transcribed in this small log of enigmatic and often heart-seared recollections.
I feel honored, too, to have shared them with you, the readers and faithful visitors to Saints & Scholars.
David Kinchen,
Editor, PurgaStories
