The Journals of Velma Graydon: 1931-1942

Velma At the Helm!

2009-10-04T23:00:00.000-04:00

Velma Here,

So I've been practicing on this thing and I think I got it down. You type. You read it over. Then you hit "Publish Post." I think I'm going to be real good at this. Nicky or Justin, if you can see this, tell me if it looks alright.

Also, I like this font. It looks like a typewriter. It makes me miss a typewriter. So much more substantial than this machine.

So now if I can only make this site start from the beginning instead of starting at the end. That makes no sense to me! Am I the only one who thinks that?

Ok, if this works, I'll get to posting the journals.

A Chat With Velma

2009-09-28T14:54:00.001-04:00

After all this Kickstarter excitement seemed to settle, I was finally able to sit down with Velma and get the whole blogging process back on track. After asking her to be kind enough to write a letter a week to our supporters, she launched right into it.

VELMA: So I think I’m going to start doing the lobbing?

JUSTIN: The blogging?

VELMA: Sure. Whatever.

JUSTIN: How’re you going to do that? You hate the computer.

VELMA: I’m getting used to it and you seem to be too busy.

JUSTIN: What about Nick?

VELMA: Who my assistant? The one who’s supposed to assist me in anything I ask him to assist me in?

JUSTIN: Yeah him. He loved taking over my blogging duties when I came up short.

VELMA: He’s being a priss. He says he’s too busy.

JUSTIN: Well then—

VELMA: Which, in all fairness, he is. I’m workin’ him to the bone.

JUSTIN: Poor thing.

VELMA: He reminds me of it every morning. I told him to start drinking coffee and he’d be a helluva lot happier.

JUSTIN: Amen to that.

VELMA: Yeah. So I’m going to give it a go. Just furnish me with the address and by the end of the week I’ll be up and runnin’ sweetheart.

JUSTIN: Are you sure about this?

VELMA: What? This got you nervous? Come on, how many 94 year old lobbers can there be out there?

JUSTIN: You might be the only one.

VELMA: Then God bless me.

JUSTIN: Perhaps God should bless all of us.

VELMA: You’re such a smartass sometimes.

JUSTIN: Just to you, Velma.

VELMA: That’s why I like you so much.

So Velma’s going to try it out. I think she intends to pick up where I left off, but who knows. Maybe she’ll shake things up a bit.

Our Kickstarter Video!!!

2009-09-25T09:59:00.003-04:00

Check it out. It's very Ken Burns but without the budget or celebrity narrators.

http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/224129525/become-a-citizen-of-the-wonder-city

Kickstarter

2009-09-09T12:45:00.000-04:00

The Wonder City is on Kickstarter and picking up steam. Check it out.

http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/224129525/become-a-citizen-of-the-wonder-city

Back from the Void

2009-08-27T10:05:00.000-04:00

As some of you may know, last December Mr. Fish was generous enough to assume blogging responsibilities seeing that I was bogged down in lettering the graphic novel. Not soon after both Mr. Fish and Velma disappeared for 8 months. No word from either of them. No one was returning phone calls and Mr. Fish stopped emailing and blogging.

I naturally assumed the worst.

Then this morning my phone rang (at a very early hour mind you).

JUSTIN: Hello.

VELMA (Very Loud): SWEETHEART!!

JUSTIN: Who is this?

VELMA: It's Velma, hon.

JUSTIN: Jesus, Velma, I thought you-

VELMA: Kicked it. Yeah. A couple of people thought so. No, Nicky and I were off for awhile.

JUSTIN: I'm assuming you can't say where?

VELMA: Of course not. It's not that interesting anyway.

JUSTIN: I'm starting to think you work for the government.

VELMA: I'm starting to think you don't work at all.

JUSTIN: Ouch.

VELMA: I mean, nothing. Not a single post since December.

JUSTIN: Nick told me he had it covered. Actually he told the readers. I didn't even get a head's-up.

VELMA: Ah, whatever. I know you and Courtney have been busy with the graphics novel.

JUSTIN: Graphic.

VELMA: WHAT? Oh. Right. Graphic.... Well, I've been thinking about some things.

JUSTIN: Oh yeah.

VELMA: I think we need to make some changes.

JUSTIN: To what?

VELMA: To this blog thing. We might've been going at it all wrong.

JUSTIN: I'm not sure there's a right or wrong way to do it, Velma.

VELMA: I do. Let's talk about it.

JUSTIN: Ok.

VELMA: Can you meet up with me tomorrow in my office?

JUSTIN: Actually I'm not in the city right now.

VELMA: Well where the hell are ya?

JUSTIN: Martha's Vineyard.

VELMA: Oh I see. Must be nice.

JUSTIN: It is.

VELMA: Well, when do you get back in?

JUSTIN: Can we meet the beginning of next week. Say Tuesday.

VELMA: GREAT!! Come over my way, noonish. Make ya a tuna sandwich.

JUSTIN: Yummy. See ya then.

VELMA: Right. Bye now.

I guess we're back in business.

May 6, 1932

2008-12-01T09:35:00.000-05:00

A note was left in my campus mailbox today stating that, in one week's time, I am to meet with Tobias Finch, Private Investigator at 8:15 PM under the far staircase of track 16 in Pennsylvania Station. The note said to tell no one and bring no one. It also said that I was in no danger and could be of great help to him in a very important investigation.

What could this all mean?

From the Desk of Nick Fish

2008-11-25T11:37:00.000-05:00

Readers (if there are any of you left):

The wait is over. Now, over two months since Mr. Rivers's absence from the blogging process, the word has been handed down from both Mr. Rivers and Ms. Graydon that I may continue the process where he left off. At last check-in Mr. Rivers was still mired in the lettering of his graphic novel and happy to turn the work over to me. Also, I am pleased to report that I have been given full editorial discretion which means entries will be posted with more efficiency.

I shall enjoy communicating with Ms. Graydon's readership in the future. Thank you.

Best,

Nick Fish

Velma Weighs In

2008-09-23T16:20:00.000-04:00

Velma gave me this handwritten note which I have been asked to type out and post on the blog for your information.

Thanks,

Nick Fish

Dear Readers,

I feel this note is long overdue. I am a computer phobic which might be trite, I know, for a 96 year old woman but true nonetheless for me. It has been one of my longest standing battles to master the machine, but alas, I fear the machine may end up mastering me. For that reason, I have been woefully out of touch with this blogging process. Thank God for assistants like Nicky and the help of Justin who bear with me through it all. One types out my chicken scratch and the other reads it back it to me.

Recently, I have had the good fortune of sitting down for a series of conversations with our blog master. A couple of times over the past few weeks, we met, shared a drink and chatted about the journals which you have been reading for close to a year now. They were a ton of fun and personally, I hope I get to read them on this very blog soon. I was even given the honor of previewing some of the pages of the graphic novel he and Courtney are working on and of which I am featured in. I find it important to mention that he has stepped away for the blog for a few weeks to begin lettering said graphic novel. Mr. Fish might continue the process in his absence, although I suspect that might ruffle a feather or two where Mr. Rivers is concerned.

But really, reading my awkward, self-important, 19 year-old self has made me feel young again. And I thank you from the bottom of my 96 years-young heart for sharing this journey with me. It is a wild one with far too many twists and turns for my comfort, and one for you that has only just started.

I sincerely hope you enjoy it as much as I have.

Best Regards,

Velma Graydon

Photo: Pages from THE WONDER CITY, Courtney Zell

May 4, 1931

2008-09-09T21:07:00.000-04:00

Met with Fox last night at the Bakery. After throwing back a whiskey with me, he said that by the description of the man I was giving him, it sounded like someone by the name of Tobias Finch was following me. Fox said he is a private eye usually hired by the very affluent to investigating heists and thefts. He occasionally comes into the Bakery and was in last week having a drink with Mick and Rick. When I approached both of them, they both said (so eloquently) that he asked nothing about me. How strange this all is.

Irving was no where to be found today. I left a note on the door to his office saying I had come for my session. I sincerely hope he's alright.

In the most important news, I received another letter from Robert. He has made it to Edinburgh and is staying with his grandmother as Mrs. Vanderford has given him leave to see his family while they're in Great Britain. He says he will stay the reminder of the month and rejoin Mrs. Vanderford in London. He said many times that he missed me and wished I was with him. How I wish the same. He said he has no doubt his grandmother would love me.

And through all this I have finals to attend to. I can hardly believe my first year at Barnard is drawing to a close.

May 1, 1932

2008-09-08T22:41:00.000-04:00

I have confided in Dottie that someone has been following me. There have been at least six occassions since Jacob Vandewater pointed out the tall gentleman three weeks ago that I have noticed him every once and again when I'm off campus. For some reason I can't bring myself to tell anyone else but her about it. He seems to trail far behind me that I can never make out his face, but like some secret agent or mysterious gumshoe of crime novels, he wears a gray hat and trench. He is abnormally tall, at least 6'4", I can't be sure exactly. Besides that he's only a shadow lurking behind me.

Dottie said that she thinks Fox the bartender at the Bakery can help me. She said he knows all the "shady" characters. With that, I think I'll pay him a visit.

Tomorrow night, Dottie, Sarah and I are going to see Tarzan the Ape Man at the Roxy. It will be my first time at what they call the cathedral of the motion picture. Perhaps my tall mystery man will join us.

April 20, 1932

2008-09-04T13:16:00.000-04:00

MR. LINCOLN--ST. JOHN THE DIVINE

OFFICE: 9:30-10:30 AM

NOTES:

Communipaw village had a special relationship with the Native Lenape inhabitants. It was from them that they learned how to cultivate the land for cabbage growing and the surrounding river beds for oyster hatching. They were known for harvesting an overabundance of each.

These two factions of Communipaw came to be, those who cultivated the land and those who cultivated the water. It wasn't until the British took over the region that a small group of founding father began collecting the materials for the archives which was started and kept in the House of the Four Chimneys, a "lordly mansion" built by a Dutchman named Van Horne.

All Communipaw Dutchman had a fondness for smoking pipes. It was said that decisions could not be made in the community without the founding fathers smoking their pipes in consultation. It was said that the natives showed them how to dry a special tobacco blend which helped them raise the spirits of the land and sea.

The Communipaw were very insular and suspicious of outsiders coming into their village. For the longest time, Dutch was the only language allowed to be spoken in the households of the village.

Some of this really sounds ridiculously perculiar. I wish I knew why I had to sit through this.

MR. FISH MAKES A SUGGESTION

2008-09-01T21:31:00.001-04:00

A note from Mr. Fish:

Justin,

Velma and I have returned safely from our summer of expeditions in locations I choose not to disclose since you have a tendancy to post my emails. I've noticed some regularity with the blog, which is refreshing. Velma mentioned that perhaps elaborating more on Irving Lincoln, the Communipaw, and points in the Washington Irving material could be necassary. I suggested posting a link to Knickerbocker's History of New York from Project Gutenberg since the book itself is out of print.

Hope your summer was restful and productive. Sure to see you soon.

Best,

Nick

Mr. Fish's idea is a capital one. Below please find the link to Project Gutenberg's online edition of Washington Irving's Knickerbocker's History of New York

There you'll be able to read reference's to the mythical Communipaw Dutch community as referenced in Velma's recent journal postings. It's http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/13042
I've also found this website on Irving's Communipaw which my be of interest.

http://www.online-literature.com/irving/3685/

Photo: www.aboutbookbinding.com

April 14, 1932

2008-08-24T10:45:00.000-04:00

Was called back to Jacob Vandewater who once again received me curtly at his door, looking quite disheveled again. He handed me the exact some manuscript in the same shirt box which was now crumpled and in a sad state.

"Don't return that to Dr. Loockersmans. The note is intended for Mr. Rapalje." His wire-rim glasses were still crooked on his face. I wondered if he had changed at all since my first delivery. "Do you understand?"

"Yes sir, completely."

"And don't hand it to that driver of his either. Directly to Mr. Rapalje himself. I fear that man to be meddlesome."

"I understand, sir," I said almost chuckling because Rudy, to me, seems to be the nicest man I've met in travels.

Vandewater looked both ways down the street and ducked inside the door. "Be careful, Ms. Graydon, I fear you're being followed. Do not go directly to Mr. Rapalje." With that he slammed the door.

I turned slowly and started walked down the street. In the corner of my eye I did notice what seemed to be a tall man in a hat following me. I couldn't make out his face but as soon as I reached the corner he began to move in my direction. I quickly found my way into a taxi cab and as far as I can tell, I was free of him.

The intrigue doesn't seem to end. And now, part of me, is starting to enjoy it.

April 6, 1932

2008-08-24T09:59:00.000-04:00

MR. LINCOLN--ST. JOHN THE DIVINE

IN HIS OFFICE.

TRANSCRIPTION OF CONVERSATION AND CERTAIN EVENTS.

"Would you like a pipe, Miss Graydon?"

"No, thank you."

"You're so polite.... Did you read the book I gave you last?"

"Yes and Mr. Lincoln, I'm confused. It's fiction. None of that is true. I have a factual history of New York and they hardly mention the Communipaw. Just that it was a region of Hudson County and there were some Dutch homesteads there."

"Are you saying that Mr. Irving, my namesake, was a liar, Miss Graydon."

"Of course not, he was a writer of stories. That history is fictional. Not to mention he makes the Dutchmen at Communipaw look like lazy fools."

"Hmmm, I see, that's what you believe. Let's review the facts you've come across in your reading. Did the Dutch settle New Amsterdam?"

"Yes."

"Was there a place called Communipaw across the river?"

"Yes."

"Was there such historical figures as he spoke of in that text?"

"I would assume they were characitures of real people? Peter Stuyvesant and such."

"Did the Dutch have a strong devotion to St. Nicholas?"

"So I've read."

"Then where are the lies, Miss Graydon?"

"Mr. Lincoln, I'm having a hard time believing that St. Nicholas sat on a cloud and guided the Communipaw Dutchman to island of Manhattan, convincing them to settle there."

"Then you're in the wrong line of work."

"I'm not in a line of work, sir. I'm a student."

"Come with me." He hopped off his little chair. "This is your real lesson, Miss Graydon. Words are your passion, well you better start believing in them." He walked me to a tiny wooden door with a cathedral arch. "Do you know what an archivist here does, Miss Graydon?" He fumbled for a key on his collection of identical keys. Again, looking like he was picking out something arbitrary.

"No."

He unlocked the door and led me down a dark passage. He stopped and without even being able to see, I heard him fumble for another key and unlock another door. When he turned on the light switch, the sight nearly made me collapse. A vaulted room the size of my entire dormatory filled with ancient books, maps, and scrolls. There were at least two differen levels to the room with walls shelved from floor to ceiling.In the center was a large Gothic-style statue of a tall robed man with a long beard and a pointed bishop's hat. It was more books and papers than I had ever seen in one place, including the library on Columbia's campus.

"Everything ever written here from 1630 to yesterday can be found in this room in some form or another. Not even Washington Irving himself would believe it. But it exists." My mouth never closed. "So lesson one: not all facts are factual, and not all fiction is fictional. This collection, started by are ancestors is the Communipaw's contribution to history. History just hasn't gotten around to recording it. We were are guardians of the land, sea, and the written word." He pointed to the statue. "And that is our greatest patron and guide. St. Nick. Washington Irving, when he wrote, wrote to make fun of the myth of us. We were folklore by time he came poking around. But it was because of him that we have our own folklore to begin with. And someday, amongst other things, this will all be your responsibility, Miss Graydon."

Photo: Trinity College Library, Dublin.

March 30, 1932

2008-08-23T23:00:00.001-04:00

Listening to the radio this morning, my favorite show at the moment is The American Album of Familiar Music on the NBC dial. I have to usually fight off Dottie for the radio who is completely enthralled with Little Orphan Annie which just so happens to come on everyday of the the week at the same time. But listening to some of the bands on my program makes me think of Robert. He's been gone for nearly a week now and I cannot believe how much I miss him. I know that be he'll be back by summer. I only hope he doesn't go off and fall for a fancy European girl.*

It's Sarah's birthday today. Her father had Dottie and I down to their home for dinner. It was a different dining experience from the last time. Mr. Schimberg served a traditional Shabbat dinner that's how traditional Jewish families celebrate birthdays. We had chicken and a stew of carrots. I was introduced to a host of Hebrew words for certain household items like mapit is a napkin and prachim means flowers. Sakin means knives. There was a song which was a prayer to the Shabbat Angels to bless the food and Sarah as she entered her 19th year.

Of course Dottie added her own flare to the evening. She stopped at an Italian bakery on the way down and bought an assortment of pastaries which she claims is how traditional Italians celebrate their birthdays. I bought Sarah a biography of Louis Daguerre, which she loved the most, she said.

Tonight Sarah is staying in Hewitt Hall so we can go to the Bakery to celebrate "properly" as Dottie says.

*EDITOR'S NOTE: In a prior entry not included on the list given to me by Velma, it is mentioned that Robert was accompanying Caroline Vanderford on a European tour as her butler. He was gone for approximately five months before returning to New York. She mentions many times how she misses him but does not confirm whether or not they are officially coupled.

March 16, 1932

2008-08-23T21:19:00.000-04:00

Had my first real session with Mr. Lincoln today. I've decided to keep all notes from him in this journal since I'm not quite sure how to classify the material he'll be imparting to me. Although I intend to treat this as a class I attend twice a month, I'm still not exactly sure what I am going to learn under his tutelage.

When I arrived at the top of the spiral stairs to his hidden office, I could smell the cherry wood from his pipe wafting up the stairs. Before I could even announce myself, I heard him shout, "Ms. Graydon, come down." So I cautiously crept down the stairs careful not to fall as there wasn't much room to move. "You're a morning person. I figured that about you. Early risers are extremely disciplined folk. I can smell your discipline."

"I have a class in the afternoon," I said arriving at the bottom stepping into a haze of smoke.

"What class?"

"Modern Dutch Grammar."

He grimaced, "With Gerdi, I presume."

"Yes. He's the only Dutch professor on staff."

"And German as well. Did he tell you that? He teaches German over on the men's campus. I'm sure he didn't. He tries to hide that now."

For some reason the news hit me as strange. "He did not tell me that."

He puffed on his pipe. "My advice to you, Miss Graydon. Keep both your eyes open at all times. And follow your instincts. They're usually right."

"Is he involved in something bad?"

"How am I to know? I spend most of my days locked up in this cathedral poring over old books. Besides, we're not here to draw conclusions about people. I'm merely telling you to watch those around you. Dr. Loockersmans is one of the top three Lightkeepers. That is not a position that is just handed to you. And of course, he found you."

"I just find it hard to trust him."

He smiled and puffed his pipe. "Well, ok, here we are. I see you've brought your notebook. Good. My first question to you is, how have your dreams been of late?"

I could sense my face flushing with blood at his question. Did he know the types of dreams I was having? "Very strange."

"Vivid?"

"Yes."

"Same dreams over and over?"

I was getting more anxious. "YES! What is that about, Mr. Lincoln? Do you know?"

"Have I offered you a pipe yet today?"

"No. And no thank you."

"Are you sure?" He said puffing so much on his that the room seemed to fog over.

"I'm very sure. Thank you."

He stood up, which for him didn't look much different from him sitting down. He went over to a basket full of rolled documents. He fiddled through a group of them and finally settled on one. From what I could tell it was arbitrary for they all looked the same. It was tied with a green ribbon, like the rest. "Green," he said. "My favorite color. Yours as well, I should think."

At first I thought he was some sort of wizard for knowing that, but then I realized I had my green satchel and was wearing a green dress. "Yes, it is."

"Green, Miss Graydon, is the color of the Communipaw which is what we're learning about today." He unrolled the paper to reveal an old surveyor's map of what looked like a riverside. The paper was brittle and faded. "This map dates to 1633 not long after a small band of Dutchman and their families, after crossing weeks of unwelcoming seas, roll into New Netherland. They sailed by the hilly island which looks, to them, a bit unsuitable for settlement. They forge up the wide river mapped out by Hudson, known to them as the North, and settle in small lowland region known as Communipaw. At first and for many years, they thought Communipaw sat on a small island which they called Oyster Island because of the abundance of oysters in the surrounding river beds. These Dutchman were like no other before and like few after. They were known for their incredible simplicity, their love of the pipe, their keen power of perception, and their incredible ability to commune with nature. I am one of only a few that are alive today and I being the only one left alive who knows of their ways. My mother's father, a Hooglant, carried on the traditions from a long line of Communipaw descendants. He was a man of the sea. But all that will come later."

"Where is this Communipaw located?"

"It was wiped off the maps many years ago to make way for the City of Jersey."

"You mean across the river?"

"In 1855, with Manhattan burgeoning in all directions, the land that was once the seed of New Amsterdam was carved up into city blocks and now all that is left is a street bearing its name."

"What do you mean by seed?"

"You see, Miss. Graydon, it was a select few Dutchman who launched from Communipaw and came downriver to settle New Amsterdam under the watchful eye of St. Nicholas." He went over to a book shelf and pulled off a dusty black leather-bound book. The gold embossed letters read, The History of New-York from The Beginning of the World to the End of the Dutch Dynasty by Diedrich Knickerbocker. "Read it, it will explain more to you."

"May I ask why this is important to me, Mr. Lincoln?

He laughed and puffed away on his pipe. "Simple, Miss Graydon, you, along with myself, are one of the few Communipaw descendants left."

Was he playing a trick on me? Was he out of his right mind? I had never heard of these people ever. "That can't be right, sir. Both sides of my family only have English and Irish heritages."

He wobbled over to a shelf full of disorganized paper and once again seemed to arbitrarily pull one out. "According to this tree here, your great great great great grandfather was a Van Hornes who went on to marry a Wynkoop, who then had seven daughters, one of which married a Knickerbacker, and one of their daughters married a young man by the name of Phillips who brought her and his family back to England where another daughter was born who married a one Thorton Graydon of Greenwich who beget a son, a merchant marine who settled back in the wilds of the New World, in a spot known as Saratoga, who went on to beget a son who took to horse breeding this man's name was Jonathan."

"My grandfather."

"Who went on to beget a son named Joe, a daughter named Grace, and a lastly a another son, very late in his life named Richard. Who went on to have a daughter named Velma and a son named Henry." He handed me the paper.

Truth be told, I knew very little of the Graydon family history. Unlike Granny Elie, who told me all about the Morgans, father's parent died before I was born because my father was the youngest and born late in their lives. "So Miss Graydon, if Gerdi didn't find you, it was only a matter of time before I would."

"Yes, but I have cousins on that side. Why aren't they here listening to all this?"

"Because Ms. Graydon, they are not you. You for some reason, have the mind the instincts of a Communipaw. You are special and will have to accept it. Now, stop taking notes and tell me all about these dreams you're having."

March 11, 1932

2008-08-20T23:19:00.000-04:00

Studying feriously for mid-terms next week and then there is a spring recess called for the week after. I don't think I'll go to Saratoga that week but rather stay in New York and continue to practice my Dutch and research more on these Lightkeepers.

I've been dreaming quite a bit again. Recurring images. The girl in the tattered bonnet like the one in my dreams back in the fall. She continually gives me the long blue feather which I can sware I feel in my hands. And for the past two nights I've been dreaming of ships sailing into a desolate harbor. There are three of them and they are old. Perhaps caravels or European schooners of some kind. The images flash by in my dreams in a nonsensical pattern.

Had a delivery to a new Lightkeeper today. His name was Jacob Vandewater of E. 77th Street. I delivered him a shirt box tied with brown string. It felt as though there was a stack of paper's inside. He answered the door in quite an erratic state. His hair was disheveled and his glasses crooked. He took the box quickly and said that he would call on me soon to bring the box to Mr. Rapalje. He then bid me good day and shut the door rudely. I have now met four of the seven Lightkeepers. Two seem perculiar to me and two I like very much.

March 2, 1932

2008-08-19T22:58:00.000-04:00

Read a disturbing article in the morning paper about Colonel Lindbergh, the world famous aviator, of Hopewell, New Jersey, who found his child missing last night with a ransom note. How frightening! I think this Depression is making people commit desperate crimes for money.

It has been over a week since I've received an assignment from Loockersmans, so I have taken the time to do some investigating of my own. Of course with Mid-term examinations coming, this is the worst time for that sort of thing, but I can't help myself.

I returned to St. John the Divine and met up with that strange little man, Irving Lincoln. He apologized for being so terse last month and told me that he understands my frustration. He took me down to his little office which was down a set of spiral stairs behind the choir of the cathedral. His office is stacked with old books and maps from what looks like various centuries past. There was one lone roll-top desk stuffed with papers at which he sat. It looked like it was custom made for his height. He explained to me that he is the archivist at St. John the Divine and has been for a countless number of years. His charge is to catalogue and organize the cathedral's vast number of books and documents.

I asked him why he thought the Lightkeepers were making a fuss over me. He explain that I have an unusual sense of perception, which will only grow stronger as I grow older and it will come in handy with the work they need to accomplish. I'm still not sure how I am any different from anyone else. He said that my knowledge and ability to master and understand languages is really my greatest asset to them. Jack also said the same thing. Why they have me as a messenger is still a mystery to me. I'm not observing anything or speaking any other language other than English.

I of course went on to ask him who the Lightkeepers were as an organization. He said that their story was long and involved but basically they were a group of Dutch settlers who banded together to keep the interest of the city and its residents as a priority. There are always seven seven members at one given time, he was very quick to point out that he was not one. Every member is in some way related to an original founding family of New Amsterdam. I explained to him that Dr. Loockersmans is directly from Utrecht and not from New York. He said that my thinking on the matter was narrow. Of course families came and went back from the Netherlands. The whole thing sounded like one of those old boy's club to me. He laughed and said it was in a way.

Many times he stopped to offer me a pipe. I continually turned him down telling him I didn't smoke. He said it was a shame. He said smoking a good pipe cleared the mind. Mr. Lincoln said I was to return to him twice a month (on the first and third Wednesday) with a notebook in hand. He was going to begin divulging useful information about my post. Before I left, he asked me how my Dutch was coming along. I said fine, I was practically able to understand most of the language conversationally. And could read most anything put in front of me. He laughed and said I would need that soon.

Robert and I are going out again for the third time tomorrow. He is taking me to the cinema to see 20,000 Years in Sing Sing with Spencer Tracy and Bette Davis. He told me that he enjoys my company more than anyone elses. I said I did his. I really cannot stop thinking about him. I'm not sure these thoughts couldn't have come at a worse time.

February 25, 1932

2008-08-12T12:14:00.000-04:00

Delivered a package today from Professor Loockersmans to William Fitz Roy, CEO of the Commissioners. When I arrived on the 75th floor of the Empire State Building I noticed the stark contrast of the office. There were glass partitions being erected and silver marble lining the floors. A secretary was there to greet me when I stepped off the elevator. She escorted me down a newly formed hallway, extremely art deco in its appearance, all black, white, and glass. Stark. Everything was shining and new. Even the secretary wore a black dress and her hair was pulled tightly in a bun. I felt completely out of place in my brown dress and green satchel.

I was led past an enormous room and saw the longest conference table ever imaginable. There was what looked like a maid polishing the finish on it. It was clear that every detail of this office was deliberate.

When we reached the end of the hallway, two black and silver-trimmed double doors were opened. I was announced by the secretary and Mr. Fitz Roy bid me to enter.

I explained that I would have left the package with his secretary but Professor Loockersmans said I give the package only to him. He had me sit and offered me a drink. I declined. He said not taking a drink was poor form in a business meeting. I replied that I was not aware we were in a business meeting. For some reason I felt a strange air of confidence in this situation. Being such a standout made me feel like I needed to act like a standout.

“You’re missing out on a wonderful Scotch from the Isle of Skye. Nothing from a bathtub in Harlem, I assure you.” He poured himself a drink.

I simply handed him the package and asked, “Does this have to do with John Randel Jr.?”

He said, “You looked him up?”

“I did.”

“It does. Everything here does. City planning is our bread and butter, Miss Graydon.”

And then out of nowhere I asked a question that I felt was none of my business. “How are you associated with the Light Keepers then?” I’m still not sure who the Light Keepers really are. I was hoping he could elaborate. But I noticed the question cut the air and created a moment of discomfort for him.

His face was blank for a moment. “That is a good question. Ask your professor. I’m not at liberty to say.”

I smiled politely and suddenly felt the need to leave, “I’ve taken up too much of your time.”

“Not at all.” He sipped his Scotch. “Always a pleasure Miss Graydon. ” I was promptly shown out.

I vow to the page that I will begin to gather answers even if I have to do some investigating of my own.

February 17, 1932

2008-08-08T12:07:00.000-04:00

Had the most wonderful night with Robert. I arrived at a club called Small's Paradise which is in the basement of a building on 135th street in Harlem, hence the 1/2 address. Robert stood at the door waiting for me with a black case in his hand. When he saw me, he handed me a green carnation stating that he thought green was my color. He said it was his favorite. I said it was mine as well.

When we walked inside a round man greeted Robert familiarly and took the black case from him. He showed us to a small table among the smoky room. The tables were set up around a large open dance floor where people were dancing wildly. On the stage in the front of the room was an ensemble of men, one on piano, one on base, one on clarinet, one on trumpet, one on trombone, and a gentleman on drums. All where wearing black fedoras. The room was stuffed with people drinking and moving along to extremely upbeat music. I would assume jazz, although I had never heard it before. The entire club was alive with energy and even the waiters danced with the drinks on their trays.

Robert ordered two whiskeys and offered me a cigarette. I refused it since I've never smoked before. He lit one for himself and we talked a little over the music about growing up around horses since he father ran Mrs. Vanderford's stables. He also fascinated me with the story of his crossing from Scotland when he was eight. There was the 10 days he spent on the boat with only he and his father and for 8 of them it was stormy and he couldn't go above the deck so he stayed below read all the complete works of Sir Walter Scott. His mother and two sisters came over two years later when his father could send the money. Then out of the blue he asked me what my favorite church hymn was. I told him I wasn't much of a churchgoer, but I remember Granny Ellie saying she'd love "Closer Walk With Thee" when she went down South with her sister. He smiled and said Granny Ellie had excellent taste.

Suddenly the music stopped and the same round man came on stage and asked Robert to come up. The host introduced him as "White Lightening." The room went crazy with applause. When he stepped on stage he took a silver trumpet out of the case he was carrying before and addressed the ensemble. He turned to the audience and said, "This is a fairly new little dirge from New Orleans, but tonight it'll raise the dead." The band then exploded into this swing rhythm of "Closer Walk with Thee" which lasted for 10 minutes, each instrument having their turn on improvising on the theme. Robert's solo was the longest and most complicated. The audience hollered, clapped, and some people even danced in the aisles. It was the grandest thing.

Robert played fives songs after that and stepped off stage. We finished our drinks and he offered to walk me back to campus. I accepted. When I asked where he learned to play trumpet, he said that Mrs. Vanderford gave him a trumpet for Christmas when he was twelve. One of the stable hands from Harlem, who played drums, took him to his father who taught him how to play trumpet.

When we reached Barnard's campus at 1:30 AM, I told him I'd never had an experience like that and I wanted to go again. He leaned over and kissed me softly. I almost collapsed from weakness. He said anytime and walked off. When I walked in to the room, I found Dottie up sitting in bed waiting to hear all about it. She said by the color of my cheeks the night went well.

What a night!

Photo: www.newyorkpartyshuttle.com

February 14, 1932

2008-08-05T22:41:00.001-04:00

The day of Saint Valentine. Not very much to report on that front for myself. Dottie is off with Howie, doing what, I'm not quite sure. She told me not to wait up. Like I ever have in the past. Sarah and I will most likely have dinner. Neither of us pretend to be too broken up about being single young women.

Although, I only admit this to the page, but my thoughts keep coming back to Tuesday evening's upcoming meeting with Robert. His note was so terse and mysterious and that leads me to question his intentions. I have only seen him a handful of times and each we have exchanged less than five words to one another. Of course he is exceedingly handsome and he smiles at me like no one else ever has. It makes my heart beat a bit faster than usual. Something I've never felt. Dottie says this is what normal "dames" call falling in love. Sarah said the same thing. I assured both of them I haven't had the time or the occasion to fall in love with him yet. She then called an idiot for trying to schedule love like an appointment.

Regardless, after having Dottie do a little investigating at the Bakery, the club where I'm meeting Robert has the queerest address, 2294 1/2 W. 135 street. Can half a building be correct? She says I have Mick to thank for the information, so I wonder.

February 3, 1932

2008-08-04T11:54:00.001-04:00

The third Olympic Winter Olympics games opened today in Lake Placid. Henry has informed me that he will be traveling north on the 9th to watch the bobsleighing competition. That has always been a favorite pastime of his in Saratoga. He was sweet to ask if I wanted to join him, but time will not permit me.

This afternoon Abby Putnam, who seemed to virtually fall off the face of the earth since Christmas recess, came to our door with a huge gift-wrapped box on a dolly. She said that it was a very late Christmas present from the Putnam family to all of Abby’s closest friends. We are only mere acquaintances and Dottie has kept Abby at an arm’s length since the bootlegging situation this past fall. Thus one might understand my complete confusion as to being classified as “closest friends.”

“How many of those do you have, Abby?” Asked Dottie unscrupulously.

Abby smirked, “More than you think, I’m sure.”

Dottie who is much stronger than she looks, hugged the package, threw it on her bed and did the honors of unwrapping it. “With the number I’m thinking of, I’m sure you’re right.” Dottie, being proud, did not appreciate feeling used by Abby for booze. “But I’m never one to turn away a gift.” She proceeded to tear open the box. Inside was wood-paneled tabletop Zenith radio with gold fixtures.

I gasped. “Abby we couldn’t possibly accept this.” I knew how long it took Mother and dad to save for ours.

“Of course you can. Dad was given a gross of them as gifts for one of his contracts. He told me that every cultured college girl should have one.”

“So I guess this one’s for you, Vel,” Dottie said.

“No,” Abby insisted. “It’s for both of you. I sincerely hope you both enjoy it.” And with that, Abby wheeled her dolly out of our room. “Have a good evening ladies.”

We both thanked her graciously. Well, at least I did. Dottie and I then both looked at each other. “She wants something,” Dottie said to me.

“I agree.” I said.

“But hell, I’ll take the radio. Mom and pop don’t even have one yet.” Dottie spent the remainder of the afternoon finding the perfect spot for it which we settled on being my desk since it is closest to the window. When we first turned it on, we mostly heard static and finally settled on a frequency that was playing something classical. Perhaps Brahms. Dottie didn’t seem to enjoy it.

Photo: Courtesy of www.radioblvd.com

January 16, 1932

2008-07-15T23:08:00.000-04:00

Unemployment at an all-time high in Germany, according to the papers. Apparently it's up to 6 million people. It seems the entire world is in a depression. No sign of relief anywhere.

Yesterday was an interesting day to say the least. As Mrs. Vanderford asked, I went to St. John the Divine Cathedral, which is a breathtaking structure. When I walked in I was awestruck by the size. Then immediately, I was hit with the sense that I had been there before, even though I know I never had. I couldn't seem to place the feeling.

As I traveled down the cavernous nave, I saw a small man standing off to the side of the choir. What a marvel of architecture, it's what I imagine the great cathedrals of Europe would look like. The man must have been about 5'4" inches, long gray beard, not much hair left on his head and he was smoking a pipe. There was a sweet-smelling smoke billowing out everywhere. He spotted me instantly. And looking at him, I felt like I had seen him before as well, but I couldn't remember where or when.

"Can I help you young lady?" He said through his teeth.

"I'm looking for a Mr. Irving Lincoln."

He smiled. "Why that's me. And you are?"

"Velma Graydon, sir." I took the the blue velvet pouch out of my satchel. "This pipe is from Caroline."

The color left his face for second. Then a puff of smoke came out of his pipe. His look was grave. He took the pouch and slowly removed the clay pipe. "So it is. And she sent you directly to me huh?"

"Yes she did sir."

Then he went on about something very queer. "Do you know that just today, it was announced that astronomers have seen as far out in the cosmos as they can. And what do you think they saw? Twin nebulae. What the laymen call island universes and they're moving away from the earth at 15,000 miles per second. They calculate the distance by their luminosity. And within the small portion of the cosmos we can see their are hundreds of constellations, with thousands of nebulae which inside them contain hundreds of star systems." He puffed on his pipe. "Imagine all that."

"Yes sir." I must have looked confused.

"You have no idea why I'm spouting on about this, do you?"

"No sir, I don't really."

"You work for the Light Keepers now."

I gave another confused look. "The Light Keepers?"

"Well don't ya?"

"I work for a Mr. Rapalje of--"

"He never told you did he?"

"Told me what sir?"

"That must be my job. Well, I'll tell you what. Today is not the best day for us to begin. So come back to me soon and we will start."

"Start what sir? I'm not sure I understand any of this."

"No of course, you don't. You're not supposed to." He puffed his pipe. But you will." He smiled then he turned and walked behind the choir a trail of pipe smoke following behind.

The frustration and mystery of this post is about all I can stand. I wish someone could deliver a straight answer to me about anything.

January 14, 1932

2008-07-09T23:50:00.000-04:00

I was called today to go to Caroline Vanderford's. It was a note hand-delivered yesterday to my mailbox, not through Loockersmans or Henry. It wasn't in either of their handwritings. I traveled to Park Avenue this morning and was greated by her Butler, Robert. He smiled when he saw me and showed me into Mrs. Vanderford's office. She was sitting at her empty desk twirling a pen, much the same way she had done months before. Two cups of tea were waiting on the desk.

"I took the liberty of having Robert fix us tea, Ms. Graydon. He never forgets a cup. No milk. One sugar."

"Yes. Thank you," I said. I sat down and took a sip.

"I've called you here on unofficial business." She turned and smiled at me. "I need you to deliver this to an old friend." She pulled out a blue velvet sack and revealed its contents to be an old clay smoking pipe. "His name is Irving Lincoln. You may find him at St. John the Divine Cathedral near your university. Go in and ask the first person you see for him. Tell him this pipe is from Caroline. Do not say Mrs. Vanderford. He'll be offended."

"I will." I took another sip of tea.

"He'll be expecting you the day after tomorrow."

"At what time?" I asked.

"At whatever time is conveniant for you. He is there all day and into the night most of the time." She carefully sipped her tea. "Also take note of the small envelope on the tray. That is meant for you." She smiled as I picked it up. "Do not feel the need to read it in my presense. I assure you it isn't from me." Her smile grew wider.

Later, after Robert showed me out with only a smile and a goodbye. I immediately tore open the envelope. It was a card simply saying: FEB 16, 9PM, SMALL'S PARADISE, HARLEM. BEST, ROBERT.

I felt my face radiate heat through the cold afternoon. My stomach, at the same time, fluttering.

January 3, 1932

2008-07-08T21:57:00.001-04:00

Mahatma Ghandi has been arrested by the British Viceroy in Pompey today. This could be disastorous for the Indian movement. Now that I've been keeping up with current affairs, I've taken a special interest in the Independance movement there. I think Ghandi is a remarkable figure and I truly hope for the best in his situation.

Returned to New York this morning by rail and took the BMT to 77th Street and 4th Avenue which was around the corner from the Cento's home. Upon arrival, I was immediatly fed by Dottie's mother, Anna with grapes, crusty bread and cheese. Dottie's family is just as energetic and loud as she. They all live in an entire three-floor tenement on 5th Avenue above a tailor's shop. Dottie her mother, father, and two sisters live on the first floor. Her mother's sister and her family live on the second. Her grandmother lives on the third. Her cousin Constance (Connie) and Anthony (Little Tony) came down to meet me and introduce themselves. They brought pastry with them. I went up to meet her grandmother whom they all call Grandma Susie and she was making Sunday dinner for everyone, which was prompty at 2 PM.

When I sat down at the long table, which started in the kitchen and ended in the living room, with the other sixteen members of the family, I could hardly hear myself think. Aunts, uncles and cousins came from around the corner. They all started asking me questions at once. Where was I from? What was I studying? Was I married? Will I marry? At one point, Dottie just told all of them to "can it" and just let me eat in peace. Of course for dinner there was pasta with gravy (red sauce), eggplant parmagian, vegatables, a host of meats that were made in the sauce including sausages, meatballs, and a pork dish I can't remember the name of. Of course there was crusty bread at every end of the table. Then there was fruits brought out and less than an hour later it was dessert.

I have eaten a week's worth of food in less than 8 hours. It's amazing Dottie keeps her figure eating like this on a regular basis.

January 1, 1932

2008-07-07T18:16:00.000-04:00

I am still in Saratoga and have enjoyed a lovely holiday here. Am anxious to return to New York which I will be doing on Sunday. One of my New Year's resolution for 1932 is to read the newspaper every morning so I can stay informed of the events in this world. Grannie Ellie came down from Maine and had many a discussion about current affairs. I realized I had no clue about half the stuff of which she spoke. I love to read about history and languages, but I rarely delve into newspapers. She told me she's read the morning papers since she was 16 years old. So that has inspired me to do the same. Another resolution, which Dottie and Sarah suggest, is to loosen up a bit.

I have read only a third of Dottie's book. It is much more dense that I expected and my mind hasn't been in the material.

Velma Update

2008-07-05T15:49:00.000-04:00

Dear Readership,

It seems that, once again, the Velma blog has fallen to the wayside. With Velma and Mr. Fish out of the country working on a mysterious project, and me trying to decipher this new list of entries that Velma gave me months ago when we lunched at the Peace Fountain, I've felt a bit overwhelmed. The list that was compiled by Mr. Fish to tightened up the material, which he felt was "too numerous in entries and the scope too overwhelming to sustain a readership," was ill conceived. Basically the list I was given was too scant and lacked a narrative cohesion. That's my fancy way of saying it made for bad story telling. So I have taken the past month to look at all of Velma's journal entries from January 1932 (since that is where I left off) consider the ones on the list and add a few more in to make it a readable story arc. It has actually been a more gruelling task than I initially thought.

But today I think I have finally come up with a suitable list to work with. Out of the remaining 2,438 entries from January 2, 1932 to July 12, 1942, I was handed a list of 152 from Velma and Fish (those they felt where the most important) I have added an additional 145 in order to make the story more readable (i.e. including entries with Dottie, Sarah, Robert and some characters you are yet to meet). So in all we have 297 more entries to go before we start the events of the first installment of The Wonder City which begins in July of 1942.

Another thing worth noting is that as the years go by and Velma becomes more involved in her academics and side career as courier, her entries becoming shorter and shorter. Nothing half as long and detailed as her beginning journal efforts which will make transposing them into blogger easier and faster.

Thanks for bearing me.

Justin

Starboard Comics

2008-05-30T12:34:00.000-04:00

Just a note to the readership informing you that Courtney and I have a new blog about the trials and tribulations of crafting graphic novels. Drop by and visit us at www.starboardcomics.blogspot.com. No doubt you'll get an eyeful of our works in progress.

I'm also sure Mr. Fish will have something to say about this shameless plug.

Thanks,
Justin

December 18, 1931

2008-05-29T15:43:00.001-04:00

My final day at Barnard for the semester. The train leaves at 4 PM from Pennsylvania Station. Of course, I haven't even begun to pack nor think about how I'm going to get to the station; most likely by taxi.

All five of my finals are completed and Dr. Loockersmans has informed me that I have leave from my post until January 4. Although classes don't resume until the 14th of the new year, I've been invited to stay with the Cento family in Brooklyn until the dormitories re-open. I'm actually a little relieved to have the break cut short, since I already anticipate my boredom in Saratoga. Also the chance to stay with the Centos is one I would never pass-up. At the very least, I know I will be well-fed.

Both Sarah and Dottie loved their gifts. They conspired on mine, which Dottie said involved going home to Bay Ridge. Last night, Dottie lugged out this large package from under her bed and passed it over to me.

"Sarah wrapped it," she said. "Not bad for a Jew huh?"

Sarah turned and punched in the arm. "You're such a twit. Jews give gifts!"

"But they ain't under trees."

I knew it was a book when I held it. I unwrapped it and saw the title in gold embossed letters: THE HISTORY OF THE CITY OF NEW YORK 1609-1906. My heart leapt.

"Ma called to tell me I still had it on my shelf at home. I guess I never returned it from the 4th grade. The catalogue card's still in there." Dottie's smile was huge. She was proud of that. "We knew you would blow your wig over it. And now you can stop asking me dumb questions about dead guys I did reports on."

I do love it. It's coming home with me over break and I am comitted to finishing it by time I return.

December 12, 1931

2008-05-27T22:38:00.000-04:00

EDITOR'S NOTE: In the interest of linear continuity, I am re-posting this entry even though it was instucted by Velma to be posted on December 24, 2007 out of sequence.

Needing a break from my grueling final's preparation, I decided to do some Christmas shopping for my family. Now that I am earning a side income, I feel obliged to repay those who have shown me kindness and love in the past.I also had it in my mind to find little gifts for Dottie and Sarah even though Hanukkah ended for her two days ago. Both have helped to make New York City feel a bit more like home for me during these past three months.

I have heard Abby say that the only places worth shopping in New York are either Bergdorf Goodman or Saks Fifth Avenue. I'm sure I can afford neither, but I thought it would be fun just to take a trip downtown by myself and see what treasures I could find. So I rode the IRT downtown to 50th street and walked across to Fifth Avenue. I was told that both stores were within walking distance of each other, Saks Fifth Avenue being on 49th street and Bergdorff Goodman's being on 58th street. Once I reached Fifth Avenue, I noticed the towering Sak's which stood with its rigid canopies and faux columns like a giant gift box under St. Patrick's Cathedral. What grand sights to see standing next to one another. When I walked through the doors, I was amazed by what was on the other side. Like Alice stepping into Wonderland, I was in another world, one that was completely unknown to me. The smells of perfumes and powders immediately caught my nose, as my eyes spied these giant trees that wrapped up the columns of this marvelous room. There were white lights wrapped around every branch which made the store look positively magical.

Wandering around, I noticed that many people where looking, but not buying much. I have heard that since the Depression is taking its toll on all classes, people are less concerned with gifts and more concerned with putting food on their table. Walking through the women's department I saw a rainbow of cashmere scarves lied out on a mahogany table. I just loved the look of them and decided that I would purchase one for Dottie and one for Sarah, and green since all three of us love the color green. My mother's favorite color is blue, so I picked a blue one for her. Then I went and bought simple pins that suited the personalities of each of the women. A diamond shape for Dottie because she is a diamond in the rough, a locket pin for Sarah so she could put a small photograph in there. My mother would a receive a horse pin for when she goes to the races.

I went upstairs to the men's section and decided on silk neck ties for my brother and father. Although the event, rarely presents itself that they would wear them, I thought it would be nice for them to have for holidays and special occasions. When I brought my purchases up to the cashier who, I think, was amazed to see a girl of my age with such expensive tastes. When he rang the total, which I shall not record here, he asked if I was interested in opening a charge account at the store. I told him that would not be necessary. He then asked if I wanted the items gift wrapped and I said, of course. He packaged them and told me to take them to the gift wrapping room on the fifth floor. I did so. I choose different wrappings for each of the the people I was giving, which made the young woman behind the counter less than happy.

When I was through I exited out to Fifth Avenue and saw the most peculiar thing. Directly across the street from the store were heaping mounds of earth behind make-shift fences. There were dump trucks and bulldozers all standing dormant. A sign on the fence read, "FUTURE SITE OF THE JOHN D. ROCKEFELLER CENTER." It went on to say that it was going to be a complex of fourteen commercial buildings. I found the optimism of the sign and the size of the lot odd considering most development has been halted due to the Depression. The stranger sight was a line of men waiting beneath a 30-foot pine tree. It was wrapped haphazardly with garland, as if decorated for Christmas. At first I thought it was another breadline. But then I realized the men were being handed slips of paper. Most likely paychecks by the looks of their faces. Seeing as they had lunch pails and hard hats, I presumed they were being paid for their labor. I can only assume that the Christmas tree was erected in celebration of the work which is so scarce. The Christmas of 1931 would, perhaps, be the best for them. One they would never forget.

I wanted to run and tell Sarah to photograph the picture because I doubt there would be a sight like it again. It was an obvious impossibility so I walked up Fifth Avenue content to keep the image and feeling in my heart.

December 10, 1931

2008-05-22T14:42:00.000-04:00

After days of research I was unable to find out who John Randel, Jr. was. It seemed that no where in any of the encyclopedias in our university library was he mentioned. Although it was a waste of my time to do this instead of studying for my exams, I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was something I should make my business to know.

In what I thought would be a vain attempt, I asked Dottie one morning as she rubbed her throbbing head. “Oh yeah, he was the lead surveyor for the New York City street grid back in the1800’s.”

Days of research turned up nothing and my cigar-smoking, hooch-drinking dear friend and roommate could tell me off the top of her pounding head. She must have seen the stunned look on my face because all she said was, “What? I did a report on it for Ms. Mancini in fourth grade.”

I asked her where she found her information. She looked at me strangely. “It was in some huge book about the history of New York. Pop needed to carry it around for me.” When I asked her where she got the book, she simply said the library in Bay Ridge. “Every library had one. All fourth graders need to report about their city.” She paused. “I got an A on that project and Ms. Mancini was a real bitch about that stuff.” She huffed, “Whatta bitter spinster.”

Then she laughed, “You kinda remind me of her, Vel (she’s taken to shortening my name now).” I threw a pillow at her, assuming she was joking.

December 4, 1931

2008-05-15T11:31:00.000-04:00

I shouldn't even be taking the time to write with all I have to do, but I feel it is necessary to record all my transactions with as messenger in case it should be disputed that I didn't carry out my charge.

Thus:

Upon arrival at the former World Exchange Bank I was greeted by a rotund man who would not name himself. The building was empty and he was in, what appeared to be a cheap black suit, bowler hat, and red neck that barely made it over his stomach. He stood in the middle of what used to be the bank's lobby with a small wooden box in his hand.

He said, "Ms. Graydon, yeah?"

"I am," I said cautiously.

"Tell Look I found what he needed." He gruffly handed it to me. "Open it. Just so he knows there's no funny stuff."

"It's not my business to-"

"Sweetheart, you got to open it to know what address to bring it to."

He was right. I had forgotten that I wasn't bringing this back to Dr. Loockersmans and there was no further instruction from him on where to deliver it. I opened the lid to the box to find a slip of paper atop a gold quadrant ruler. It was the last thing I expected a man of this caliber to turn over to me. The address on the slip said Empire State, 75th floor.

"Ever been?" He asked me.

"Where?" I said.

"To the Empire State Building?" I think he was expecting me to say no.

"Yes, I went last month for my birthday."

"I've always wanted to go. Some day, ya know?"

Then the thought occurred to me, "Who am I delivering it to?"

"Look didn't say. I'd bring it myself, but I've got other business to attend to." With that he walked toward the back of the empty bank and disappeared behind the vault door. The most curious part of this whole scene is how comfortable I'm becoming with these shady characters.

I walked up to the Empire State Building and entered the same bronze hallway that left me in awe a month ago. I walked to a desk with a uniformed gentleman sitting behind it. "I have a delivery for the 75th floor." I figured he would ask for a name. He didn't. Only a nod and his finger pointed to the center elevator in the center embankment. I pressed through the line of people waiting to go up to the observation deck. When I pressed the up arrow, a bell sounded and the door immediately opened. Another uniformed man stood inside at the controls.

"I'm going to the-"

"I know where you're going." Again, nothing surprises me anymore.

The elevator sped up the shaft the same as it did last month. I felt dizzy when the door opened to a completely empty floor. "75th floor," the man said.

"Are you sure?" I said peering out the elevator. "There's no one here."

Then I heard a man's voice call out, "Come Ms. Graydon, you're right. Welcome."

I stepped off the elevator. "Make a left off the elevator and walk to the back." I followed his instructions. The enormity of the empty space didn't help the dizziness from the elevator. The entire floor was without walls or doors or furniture. There was only one desk by a window. On it was a small lamp and the shadow of a man sitting behind it.

"Excuse our office. It's a new aquisition. We figured how best to show the world we are a modern institution than by moving into the most modern building in the world. And of course, the tallest."

I walked up to the desk, the man stood to receive me. He was tall and thin, his salt and pepper hair was slicked to the left side. Unlike the man who handed me the box, this man was striking and dressed very well.

"You look a little scared. I understand." He said extending out his hand. "My name is William Fitz Roy. CEO of the Commissioners."

"Velma Graydon, messenger to-"

"I know, you're one of Jack's. A Barnard girl and a smart one, according to Gerdi. I wish I could offer you a seat, but I only have one." He smiled. "Besides, you just came to deliver my artifact. I won't keep you."

"Yes sir." I handed him the box.

"Do you know what it is?"

"It's a quadrant ruler, I believe, sir."

"You're right, this quadrant dates to at least 1807. It was used by John Randell, Jr.. Do you know who he is?"

"No, sir."

"Look him up. He was very important." He smiled and put the box in one of the desk drawers. "Well, I thank you," he said sitting down back in his chair. "The elevator should be waiting for you."

"Yes, sir, a pleasure." I said slightly embarrassed I didn't know the answer to this question. I turned and walked toward the elevator.

"Next time I promist to be more hospitable, Ms. Graydon."

I turned and nodded. "Thank you Mr. Fitz Roy."

"Please call me Bill."

I couldn't. And I left as quickly as I came. Now I'm frantically trying to look up John Randell, Jr..

Justin Here

2008-05-02T11:13:00.001-04:00

Dear Readers,

I cannot thank Mr. Fish enough for so eloquently explaining my absence. But I'm back! My fingers are hard at work typing out Velma's journal entries and I have posts ready to go. Mr. Fish also let the cat out of the bag by announcing that I'm putting together a blog of Edwina Tulip's letters. Her family generously granted me permission to use them in any way I saw fit. The bulk of her letters run from the late 40's into the early 70's and they are fascinating reads. My hope is to actually get a few of them scanned in, so I can post the scans of the actual letters with the entries. That of course takes time. It will all be explained when that blog is up and running. I'll be sure to post a link to it here on Velma.

Bottom line: Thanks for waiting. Thanks for reading. And it's good to be back.

Best,
Justin

PS-I'm trying to convince Mr. Fish to edit the entries for typos but he told me he finds copy editing demeaning. Oh well.

A Letter from Mr. Nicholas Fish

2008-04-25T14:39:00.000-04:00

Dear Readership:

My name is Nicholas Fish and I am Ms. Graydon's assistant. Reading over the blog in it's entirety, I am under the impression that you know very well who I am and no further explanation is needed. Mr. Rivers has done a fine job of making our correspondences part of this electronic display. In turn, since he insists that there are no secrets between his readers and ourselves, the gatekeepers of Ms. Graydon's information, he has allowed me access to this blog so that I can address you as to his whereabouts.

Mr. Rivers recited a liteny of reasons for his now, 38-day absense from the already slow moving blogging process. I shall attempt to reduce them down to a less rambling state: a hellish amount of work at his "day job," the preparation of a grant for a comic that he and Ms. Zell were working on (apparently it's about the history of coffee) and the preparations for a new blog containing the letters of Mrs. Edwina Tulip and her family back in England. He assures us that he will be back on the blog by next week. If not, he has given me full permission to blog in his absense.

The best to you all and on behalf of myself and Ms. Graydon, our sincerest apologies.

Nicholas Fish

December 3, 1931

2008-03-17T11:03:00.000-04:00

I am in the thick of finals. My attention to this journal will be scant because of it. I will be leaving for Christmas recess as of the 18th and not returning to campus until the 4th of the new year. A large part of me dreads the time at home. But it will be chance to catch up on the reading I was not able to do because of school. I will also need to perfect my Dutch usage since a second semester of Dutch is required for my post.

After two weeks of not hearing from Loockersmans, he has contacted me for a very important business matter. I spoke with Harold this morning who told me that a directive has been left with him at the professor's office. Apparently a large sum of money was drawn out of the World Exchange Bank when it closed earlier in the year. There was also an important item in one of the safe deposit boxes that I need to claim and deliver to an anonymous member of an associated commission. I don't know what any of this means, but nothing surprises me anymore. And I grow less and less nervous at unanswered questions.

The ladies of Hewitt Hall are having a Christmas social this coming Tuesday. I have nothing to wear.

LUNCH WITH VELMA (FINAL INSTALLMENT)

2008-03-14T22:05:00.001-04:00

"Why don't I give you what you came all the up here for, huh?"

I actually forgot there was a purpose to this meeting other than freezing our asses off for the sake of a tuna sandwich. I neglected to mention that it really was one of the best tuna sandwiches I had ever had. It was something about the amount of mayo she used in tandem the celery bits. I'm always a sucker for celery. "Right, the letters."

"And my profile. Nicky wanted to type it out, but I thought handwritten would be much more personal."

"You can scan the note and put it on the blog," Courtney offered as she sketched.

Nick perked up, "With Velma's permission." He turned to Velma, "Would you be okay with that?"

She hit him across his shoulder with her gloved hand. "Would you stop it! Quit showing off in front of guests. What the hell do I care if he posts my note? He's gonna put it on there anyway. You're not my mother, Nicky, so cool it."

"I'm watching out for your interests, Velma." I have a feeling they've had arguments of this nature before. Nick didn't seemed phased by the retribution.

"I already told you, we can trust this one. He's a good egg."

Nick just looked at me suspiciously. "I assume. He doesn't appear threatening."

I kept all of the many comments I could make to myself.

Velma growled a little and opened her satchel. "God, this kid. He's lucky he's good at what he does." She carefully pulled out a brown package wrapped in newspaper with a white envelope on top of it. "Here. The package is the letters. The envelope is my profile."

"So about these letters-"

"Yeah. Return them to me when you're done and I'll give them back to Laural. They said use 'em for whatever."

"What if I added them on to the blog?"

"They said whatever."

"Should I call one of them and ask?"

Velma took out a piece of scrap paper and pen from her pocket. She quickly scribbled a number on the scrap, "This is Laural's number. Her full name is Lauralea Tulip. Although she's married now, I don't know if she took his name. Wilcott, I think the husband's name is. She lives in Brooklyn by the park."

"Do you know where? Courtney and I live over there."

"I forgot the address, but it's close to the park. Call her. I'm sure she'll be fine with it."

"What about Owen?" I asked. I noticed everyone sort of snapped out of where ever they were and looked at Velma. Courtney stopped sketching. I couldn't help but ask.

"What about him?" She said quickly.

"Does he live there?"

"Yeah, they all live in the same house."

"Could I talk to him?"

"Look, sweetheart, don't bother Owen. You know me, I don't mind the fuss. Owen likes it quiet."

I knew I hit a nerve with Owen. As Nick is protective of Velma, I think, knowing what I know, Velma is protective of Owen. And just who Owen is, will be answered soon enough.

"Nicky, did we feed Mimi, yet." Mimi is one of the peacocks, for those who might not remember.

"I haven't."

"Alright, go do that for me, while I wrap up with these guys."

Nick immediately got up and gathered his things. "Well it was very nice meeting you both."

"Good meeting you Nick," I said.

"Yeah, bye, nice meeting you," Courtney said distracted with her work.

"Be there in a minute, Nicky," Velma said as he was walking off. Velma whispered a couple of things in my ear. She asked that it not be put on the blog. "So I'm glad you finally got these letters." She forced herself up.

"So am I. And thank you for the tuna sandwich." I got up and grabbed her by the arm. "Let me help you."

"I'm not an invalid sweetheart."

"I know, but I would love to have the honor."

"Oh, such a gentleman. Courtney, are we done?"

"Well, no. But I have enough to work off of."

"Am I beautiful?" She asked with a grin.

"Totally."

"Good, maybe I'll get a man from this blog."

"Maybe," I said.

"I hope he's not one of those internet weirdos," Velma cackled.

LUNCH WITH VELMA (PART THREE)

2008-03-05T14:39:00.000-05:00

When I stepped off the C train at Cathderal Parkway the wind was whipping down Amsterdam Avenue. My face was already tingling and my fingertips where raw. This was going to be a challenge. I was never one to mind the cold, but to sit out in a park and eat lunch was a bit much. I had decided on the walk up Amsterdam that Velma Graydon was a woman of extremes.

When I came to the fountain I saw Velma sitting down with a skinny dark-haired gentleman of about 24 or 25, and Courtney next to them clutching a cup of coffee. All where wrapped up in scarves and hats. Velma had a large thermos and the gentlemen, whom I figured was Nick had a bottle of water which was in the process of changing states.

"Courtney said you'd be late," Velma yelped out.

"It is only 1:04," I said, struggling to find the watch under my glove and coat sleeve.

"That's the worst kinda late," she said. "If you're gonna do it, be courteous enough to take a full hour," she then jumped up and bear-hugged me. "I'm just pullin' your chain. Glad you made it, sweetheart."

"So am I." Thinking about making it out of the cold.

"Justin, this is my assistant, Nick Fish. I believe you've met."

Nick stood up to shake my hand. He was shorter than I thought. "A pleasure to finally put a face to the name."

"A face to the fingers," I said. "They're the real stars of the show," I laughed. He didn't. "Nice to meet you too."

"Ok so sit," Velma commanded. "Business first. Nick?" Nick turned around and handed her a green satchel. She pulled out four white packages tied with brown string. "Lunch."

"Ewww tunafish, yummy," Courtney said. She put down her sketch pad to take the sandwich.

"I brought some coffee, but Courtney beat me to the punch," Velma said taking white styrofoam cups out of the satchel.

"Well, I haven't and I could use a cup," I said grinning at the thought of holding something warm.

"I'm fine," Nick said.

"Nick doesn't drink coffee," Velma said. "How can you trust a guy who doesn't drink coffee?" She started pouring.

"My thoughts exactly," I said

"I made it light and sweet, I hope you don't mind.... Yeah he only drinks water. It's why he's so thin. Courtney, sweatheart do you need more in that cup."

"Please," she held out her bodega cup.

"Velma can I ask you something?" I said eying the worn satchel. "Is that the bag you used back in '31?"

"Good eye. Haven't used anything else. I hate change."

I looked at the satchel in awe; a virtual time capsule that held my tuna sandwich. To think what that satchel has carried over the past 75 years made me giddy.

"Velma, our friend Jenny is from Saratoga," Courtney offered.

"Oh really. Does she still live there?"

"No she moved by us in Brooklyn."

"Smart move. Saratoga was a great place to grow up, but it got too small, too fast for me."

"She works for Yaddo," Courtney said.

"Fascinating. Good for her. Beautiful campus." She sipped her coffee. "I haven't been up there in 15 years. To bury Henry."

"So, Justin," Nick cut in, "Velma and I were talking about your progress with the blog."

"Uh huh," I said munching on my sandwich.

"We've done you a great service," he said. "We've compiled a list of dates from 1932 to 1942 which are the highlights, so to speak, of her journals."

"What does that mean?" I asked nursing my iced coffee.

"That means we're gonna cut to the chase a little. Cut out some of the bull that you're readers don't need to know," Velma said. "I mean, I'm bored with some of it."

"That's because you lived it. We haven't. I find it all fascinating."

"That's because you're a nerd sweatheart. I'm gonna trust your readership is not as fascinated by all this as you are."

"She's right. You are a nerd," Courtney said.

"Shhh, you're not helping," I said to Courtney.

"Honestly, it's not that much of a cut. Just enough to keep things moving. I'd say we axed about thirty or so entries. Wouldn't you say that, Nicky?"

"More like forty or fifty, but still that's nothing compared to what lies ahead of you. Of course, I volunteered to help in the process, but Velma said no."

I continued munching on my sandwich, a little vexed at the turn of events.

"Sweatheart, honestly it's chump change stuff," Velma said kindly.

"You see Justin," started Nick. I could imagine my eyes rolling to the back of my head, but my pupils were frozen in place. "You're job is to edit. An editor would pick and choose pertitinent entries. Not include everything. Can we talk about typos yet?" He looked at Velma but she made a head-slicing motion with her gloved hand. I assume she saw my face turning purple.

"I guess you're right, Nicky, I can't thank you enough for bringing that to my attention," I said smiling.

Courtney had picked up her pad and pencil and begun sketching again. I noticed Velma had taken her hat off and was primping her gray bob. "Courtney assured me she hadn't gotten to my hair yet. I've become so vain in my old age. Ha!"

"Pretty much there," Courtney said. "It won't be too long. I also have to draw you in," Courtney said to me.

"No you don't." I barbed back. "Just do Velma and Nick." I gobbled down the remains of the sandwich with a frown. I knew Courtney was drawing me into the sketch.

LUNCH WITH VELMA (PART TWO)

2008-03-04T13:53:00.000-05:00

Courtney seemed to think that it was perfectly natural that Velma wouldn’t cancel. I was left to question if I was insane for thinking eating tuna fish sandwiches outside on a frigid February afternoon was crazy.

“Old people love being outside,” She said on the phone when I called to tell her we were on.

“I do too, but this is a little extreme.”

“Justin, this woman has two peacocks and does yoga at the age of 95. I think everything about her is a little extreme.”

“Right. Well, she must be doing something right…. Ok, well I’ll meet you up there at one. Oh. I think she wants you to sketch her.”

“What makes you think that?”

“She mentioned that she got her hair done in the event that you wanted to sketch her. So wear thin gloves.”

“Oh great,” not said in an exciting tone.

“Yeah. Extreme.”

“You’re not gonna write this conversation out on the blog are you?”

“Oh no, I don’t have time for that.” I didn't even cross my fingers.

“Good, I don’t want Velma to think I’m talking bad about her.”

“Please. She’d love it.”

LUNCH WITH VELMA (PART ONE)

2008-03-03T15:56:00.000-05:00

EDITOR'S NOTE:

In order to make the whole experience on Friday with Velma more digestible, I have decided to break the entire entry down into parts. That way it won't be too overwhelming. So here we go.

Lunch with Velma was cancelled last week due to snow. I figured since the high this Friday was 31, we would postpone once again. So at a more reasonable hour this past Friday morning, I gave her a call.

“Hi Velma, it’s Justin.”

“Hey sweetheart, can’t wait to see you. One o’clock.”

“Really?”

“Of course. It’s gorgeous today.”

“It’s 29 degrees!”

“You truly are a delicate specimen. As long as it’s dry, I’m out there. It’s good to get fresh air every day.”

I sighed. I was still in my sweatpants thinking I had nowhere to go but back to sleep. “Okay, one o’clock.”

“Is Courtney coming?”

“I guess so. I’ll call her and tell her we’re on.”

“Good, I got my hair done yesterday in case she wants to sketch me.”

“I’ll let her know.”

“You know where the Peace Fountain is right?”

“Yeah, I’ve been there once or twice.”

“Of course you have. Why did I even ask? Okay, see ya there. Tuna sandwiches in hand.” There was an immediate click and then a dial tone.

November 30, 1931

2008-02-27T12:00:00.000-05:00

I am back in the city after Thanksgiving. I absent-mindedly left my journal behind at Barnard. Not that there was much to report from Saratoga. The Graydons came down to my parent's for dinner on Thursday. There was my Aunt Eunice and Uncle Joe Graydon who came with my cousins Sandra, Richard, and Michael. All of whom are younger than myself, even though Sandra is engaged at the age of 16. Mother was quick to point that out more than once. Her fiancee did not attend dinner. He spent it with his family, which I found queer seeing as that they are engaged.

My grandmother, Eleanor Morgan, came down from Maine, where she has gone to live with her younger sister, Viola. Grannie Ellie, I had taken to calling her as a child, was from the coast of Maine and came to live here when she married my grandfather, Henry. He hailed from Saratoga but was logging in Maine for a summer to make money to start his apple orchard. They met in June and married in September. He brought her back to Saratoga and they had one child, my mother. Hence my mother being from Saratoga and my brother's namesake. Mother, I feel, has secretly resented her own mother's decision to live with her sister instead of her own daughter. Grannie Ellie said she was always meant to live by the sea, and so after Grandpa died, she left.

Grannie sat intently and listened to my stories for hours on end about the city. She's never been and swears she'll make it down at some point before she dies. Grannie is only 74 and the Morgan women live to ripe old ages. I told her she has plenty of time and when I graduate, I will find an apartment with a spare room just for her. She is a very independent women and had always served as my model. Although she is warm, she is dignified, smart, and strong. What I strive to be.

It snowed on Saturday and father hooked the sleigh up to one of the horses. He brought me out on a ride and told me that he was proud to have a daughter in college. He truly is the most dear thing in my life. It was Grannie Ellie and he who make coming home a pleasant experience.

But I am most happy to be back even if I will now be inundated with finals and most likely, not writing that often.

EDITOR'S NOTE

2008-02-22T16:23:00.000-05:00

Just to keep the readership informed, Velma cancelled lunch due to inclimate weather. She did so at 5:40 this morning in a conversation I was not coherent enough to recall.

I do remember her saying something about boots and swollen feet. Then a quick comment about the semicolon getting a whole article in the New York Times this week. She was delighted with it and said the semicolon is finally getting the attention it deserves. Unless that was a dream I had after I hung up with her.

Regardless, we've rescheduled for next Friday.

November 25, 1931

2008-02-22T13:50:00.000-05:00

Dream:

Again in the darkness of this temple. No girl this time, just myself and then a set of narrow stairs. The whole time I felt as though I was on the verge of falling forward into nothing. I took cautious steps down the spiral of the staircase and at the bottom was a dim light. A lantern and a little man smoking a long pipe. His face was rosy and warm. On his head was a pointed hat. He smiled.

This afternoon, I will board a train for Saratoga for the Thanksgiving holiday. It will be my first time back since August. I look forward to seeing everyone, but I am apprehensive about talking to mother about my experiences here. She can be very judgemental and I just couldn't bare it. Not after enjoying such independence here in New York. I'll have to sensor some of the more sensational aspects of the past few months.

ON THE PHONE WITH VELMA #4

2008-02-19T14:46:00.000-05:00

JUSTIN: Hello.

VELMA: Sweetheart! It’s Velma.

J: Hey Velma! What’s up?

V: I hear you’ve been gettin’ cozy with my Nicky.

J: Yeah, well if you call two emails, cozy.

V: He hates it when I call him Nicky. He’s all work. No fun. But I guess that’s good in an assistant, huh?

J: Sounds like it would be. I wouldn’t know. I don’t have one.

V: Real smart kid though.

J: He seems it.

V: Anyway, he’s been printing me out some of the entries. What a gas to read them in print. I still think I sounded like a square, but whatta ya gonna do. Hey, everyone thinks they’re important when they’re 19, right?

J: God knows, I did.

V: Right, wait till you start hitting the stuff in the 50’s. I thought I was freakin’ Virginia Woolf. It’s tough to hold onto. All thoughts, none of the depression.

J: Great, it should only take me about 5 years to get there.

V: Tell me about it. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I’ll be dead by time you finish ’31.

J: Ha, ha. Not unless you plan on dying by the end of the month.

V: Sweetheart, it could be by the end of the day.

J: Oh stop.

V: The reason why I’m calling, if you can believe there’s a reason, is for you to come and get these letters.

J: Yes, I’d be happy to do it.

V: I just feel nervous putting these things in the mail since they were hand-delivered to me.

J: Not a problem.

V: What days are good for you?

J: I’m usually off Fridays.

V: That’s a nice racket.

J: Yeah it is. It’s the only time I really get to work on the blog.

V: I see.

J: Also, next Tuesday I’m in Washington Heights so I could drop by then.

V: Why don’t you come up on Friday? Meet me at the Peace Fountain at one o'clock. That’s where I eat my lunch.

J: Even in February?

V: Especially in February. Do you want me to bring some lunch for you? Strike that! I am. Don’t eat before you come.

J: Really, don’t worry—

V: Clamp it! I make a mean tuna fish. Bring Courtney if you want.

J: She probably has to work, but I’ll ask her.

V: Good, she can sketch me. I’d love to cause a scene in public.

J: I bet.

V: Alright kiddo, gotta run. See you on Friday.

J: Yup. Have a good one.

V: Bye now.

J: Bye.

November 18, 1931

2008-02-18T09:41:00.000-05:00

Yesterday's surprise was a trip to the top of the Empire State Building. Dottie and Sarah both decided to pool their resources for the outing. We traveled down to 34th street on the IRT. I had no clue as to our destination. When we stepped off the train, I immediately noticed the grandness of the building not thinking it had anything to do with the surprise. Walking down the street I couldn't help but be in awe of the structure looming over the entire neighborhood. Then to see it so close in front of me made me dizzy. It was Biblical in scope.

When we stopped right in front of the entrance Dottie shouted: "Surprise, we got you a building for your birthday. I know it's a bit big, but who couldn't use the space nowadays, right?"

I laughed. Sarah took me by the hand. "No such luck sweetheart. We found it a bit pricey. You'll have to settle for a trip to the top and dinner."

"You Jews are such downers," Dottie said.

"You Italians are such liars," Sarah retorted.

"We're dreamers," She snarled.

Being a Protest of Anglican heritage I had little to offer.

Admission to the observation deck was a dollar a piece, which I thought steep, but Sarah and Dottie both insisted they pay. Rumor has it that, because of the Depression, most of the building's offices are vacant and the only income is from tourists going to the observation deck.

The lobby was extremely modern. Very bold and metallic; clean and rigid. After paying the admission we were shuffled into a large elevator with about eight other people. The speed at which the elevator traveled to the 86th floor was dizzying. I'm not sure I've ever been on anything that went so fast. Sarah thought she was going to vomit and Dottie said it felt like a night out without the night out.

The observation deck was on the 86th floor. There was another deck on the 102nd floor but it was reserved for air traffic only. Apparently dirigibles will be able to dock and unload passengers up there.

When walked outside not one of us could speak. Our mouths dropped wide open at what we saw. It seemed like the entire planet was below us. My first thought was being on Olympus looking down on Earth. Both Sarah and Dottie immediately looked south to find their homes. I looked out as far as I could to the ocean.

"I can see Bay Ridge! I wonder if ma could hear me?" Dottie said laughing.

"Most of the world has never been this high off the ground before. Can you imagine?" Sarah said. "If only I had my damn camera."

I saw the Brooklyn Bridge and I thought of Rudy. I looked beyond it to the speck that was the Statue of Liberty and then the open water.

We stood in awe for some time before Dottie interjected, "I'm freezing and I have to piss. Time to go."

After riding down to ground level. We saw to it that Dottie was relieved and then ate supper at a diner around the corner. I had a hamburger and a chocolate egg cream from the fountain. Both Dottie and Sarah swear by them. I was dumbfounded to learn that it wasn't made with eggs or cream.

November 17, 1931

2008-02-12T10:37:00.000-05:00

My 19th birthday today. I've been told there's a surprise outing planned by Sarah and Dottie. Strangely enough I heard it from Abby after one of our literature classes. I think she was intent on ruining the surprise, but I walked away before she could say anything more. Thus, I'm to know nothing about the location till I arrive.

A package arrived first thing this morning by post from Saratoga sent by mother and dad. In it was a new dress, blue, and a box of my favorite mint tea. There was a note of well-wishes from the whole family, which I found touching. Even Henry said he missed me around the house.

Not all that much to report about yesterday's delivery. I did take a cab down to the site of #1 Wall Street. The building is near completion and will be 50 storeys when completed. It is extremely modern, yet almost cathedral-like in appearance. It stands directly across the street from Trinity Church, which I did not take the time to walk into, unfortunately.

There was a fairly tall man in his, I would say, early 50's waiting for me in the entry-way. He said nothing to me. Only motioned for me to come closer to him. He displayed a small box wrapped in brown paper. I simply handed him the envelope of presumed money. He winked. I looked to the ground. He said simply, "Tell the Professor, there's more if he wants to take a look." His voice was deep and rough.

"I will," I said quietly among the sound of drills and hammers.

"You must be the new messenger?"

"I am." I said wanting to offer up nothing more.

"They are making quite a fuss over you." He looked me over in a way that made me very uncomfortable. "I can see why." He smiled.

I quickly placed the package in my satchel, "Good day," I said and ran to Broadway.

No matter now. I need to get ready for my surprise jaunt.

Me and Mr. Fish

2008-02-09T15:38:00.000-05:00

You might remember an email exchange between myself and Velma's assistant, Nick Fish. In his email he promised Velma's completed profile and letters from the Tulip family. To date I have received neither. I decided to gently remind him. He was quick to respond.

My email:

Nick,

Hey, it's Justin the "blogger." Hope all is well with you. Just wondering what happened to Velma's profile and the Tulip family letters. Please let me know if there is any way I can help to expedite the delivery process. If the mailing hasn't occurred, I am frequently in Upper Manhattan and would be happy to come by Velma's office to pick the materials up.

Let me know and have a good one.

Best,
Justin

Nick's response (which came 22 minutes later):

Justin,

My sincerest apologies for not contacting you sooner about the letters. When I last spoke to Velma about the mailing, she seemed hesitant to put the fragile documents in the mail. They were hand-delivered by a member of the family as to avoid damage. The letters begin in the 1930's so the paper is disintegrating. Velma asked me to contact you on the matter two weeks ago, but seeing as we've been swamped here with various other obligations, it honestly slipped my mind.

It might be best for you to come and pick up the letters in person. I think Velma will feel more comfortable with that arrangement. Plus, I'm sure she would love to see you. Let me speak to her on the matter and get back to you with a time and place.

Again, I apologize. Enjoy your weekend.

Sincerely,

Nick Fish

November 15, 1931

2008-02-06T11:07:00.002-05:00

Dream:

I could vividly feel the same blue feather that I was holding from my dream a few weeks prior. I was walking down a city street and came upon, what looked to be, a huge stone temple from ancient times. For some reason I was drawn into this place. When I entered it was completely dark. I had no sense of direction. I felt as though I was walking into a void and then the girl came. The one with the tattered bonnet, who gave me the feather. She grabbed my hand and we went tumbling through the dark.

I am recording this as I have just woken. The seeming reality of these dreams are beginning to frighten me. The image of this pale girl is disturbing. Not sure how to proceed.

I am off to Loockersmans's office this morning. Harold dropped a note in my campus letter box saying there is a delivery to be made.

Late Morning

Have returned from Loockersmans's with a thick, soft envelope to be delivered to a man named Harry Basset. He will be waiting for me at the construction site of 1 Wall Street. I am also supposed to receive something. By the feel of it, I would say I am carrying money to this man.

This does not sit well with me.

November 8, 1931

2008-01-31T22:07:00.000-05:00

Received a letter from mother today. She said that fall in Saratoga has gone by slowly and has been especially cold. She has taken on additional time at the spa to bring in more money for the upcoming holiday, but the customers have been fewer and fewer. There was also a note saying that my father is proud of me for taking on a side job even with my studies. He has always been my biggest champion. If only he knew the people I were working for. If only I knew the people I were working for. Each one has seemed nice enough, but that speech from Mr. Rapalje seemed like nonsense talk. Perhaps these Lightkeepers have an inflated sense of purpose. Perhaps they’re a cult.

Mother also mentioned that she saw my good friend Darla Lowe at the grocery the other day and she mentioned her engagement to our classmate Douglas Bradley. The opportunity was taken by mother to remind me that a woman of my age should be concerned with finding a husband and raising a family. In my return letter, I will respond to her comment with only a note of congratulations to Darla. I doubt mother and I will ever see eye-to-eye as women.

After starting this job, I have been dreaming again. I am having trouble remembering whole dreams, but I know images have been racing about in my head. Perhaps I shouldn’t read so much before I sleep. Dottie says she never remembers her dreams. Of course, she never remembers most of her waking hours past 8 PM.

November 5, 1931

2008-01-25T13:47:00.000-05:00

We drove down a street called Henry which was lined with tall trees and admirable townhouses all different in their architecture. Behind the houses I could see the entire southern tip of Manhattan. We stopped at a large house set on the corner of Henry and another street who's name I found strange: Joralemon. There were two giant gas lamps on either side of the door both lit even though it was 2 in the afternoon.

When we pulled up Rudy said, "That's Mr. Jack's house." He pulled over got out of the car and opened the door for me.

"Thank you," I said.

"Anytime for such a pretty young lady." His cigar was still smoking. "Just knock on da door. I gotta park the car over in da garage around da corna."

"Ok, Thank you, Rudy." I walked over to the large door and saw a gold eagle's head in the center with a ring in its beak. I used it to knock and almost immediately a man as tall as myself answered. There was a large smoking pipe in his mouth, large circular tortoise-shell glasses over his eyes and a perfectly cut head of silver hair. His eyes were a captivating blue and his smile was immediately warm.

"Ms. Graydon?"

"Yes, I am here to see-"

"Me. You're here to see me. Jack Rapalje. Welcome. Come in." He motioned his hand inside. I walked through with my satchel in hand. The first thing I noticed was the smell of coffee lingering under the cherry of his pipe. It was delightful. "Is this your first time in Brooklyn?"

"Yes, sir."

"What do you think so far?"

"Nothing like I expected. It's breathtaking, really."

"Well this is only the start of it. There's much more further south of us. Come, follow me." He walked in front of me. We passed into a long hallway lined with large portraits of women and men from a bygone age. At the end long hall was the only open door. It led into a large, bright room. The ceilings were impossibly high and the large windows looked out onto New York Harbor and the south of Manhattan. It was a view much like the one from the Brooklyn Bridge. One that was distractingly beautiful. "Please Ms. Graydon, have a seat." He motioned to one of two chairs opposite his desk. On the top of his desk was another old looking lantern, similar to the one in Loockersmans office, but this one was larger.

"Thank you, Mr. Rapalje."

"Enough of that," he said. "Call me Jack. You'd never think it by my surroundings or the company I keep, but I despise formality." He looked at me as I opened my satchel and delivered the document to him. "Thank you. You may not realize it, but this was extremely important." He opened the envelope and looked at the document. "Welcome aboard, Ms. Graydon."

"Thank you sir. I'm not exactly sure what I'm aboard at the moment."

"Right, and I suppose that's my job."

"So I was told."

He smiled. "Would you like some coffee? I'm sure Caroline sat and drank tea with you like a real lady."

"We did, yes."

"Well here you get coffee. Of course I have tea if you want it."

"No, no, coffee is fine."

"Great." He smiled. "RUDY!"

"YEAH," I heard Rudy's voice from down the hall. "Two cups of coffee, bring some cream and sugar for Ms. Velma. He calls you Ms. Velma right?"

I chuckled. "Yes."

"Do you mind?"

"Not at all," I said.

"You may notice the aching absence of a wife here."

"I hadn't actually."

"There isn't one. There was mother, then the war, then mother until she died. I never had the time to find one and now look at me, old. Of course you don't need to know all this." There was a pause because I awkwardly said nothing. "Ok, so this is how it goes around here. This document you delivered was an approval of your employment. You have officially been approved by the top three members of a society as old as the Dutch settlement of this fair city. We call ourselves the Lightkeepers, for reasons too involved to get into at the moment. You, Ms. Graydon, have been earmarked in a process also too involved to get into at the moment, as someone gifted not only in the art of languages, but also in the art of perception. Is this true?"

I was dumbfounded. "Well, I don't know if that's--"

"Right! You don't realize your gifts yet. That's fine. It's all part of the process."

I knew I was blushing at the thought of me being gifted in anything.

"You speak, French, Spanish, Latin, and ancient Greek. You are learning Dutch, I've heard at an accelerated speed."

"I do hope so."

"RUDY, THE COFFEE!" He yelled behind him.

"I'M MAKING A FRESH POT, MR. JACK,"

"Ms. Graydon, we need you. Not so much the you now, but the you you will become."

I froze with fear. I was hoping this man would unravel the mystery of the past few months, but he seemed to be shrouding it even further. "I honestly, don't understand all this."

"Of course you don't. I can't rightfully explain it to you and I won't have to. All you need to know is, there is a time coming upon us that will be dark and dangerous. It will threaten not only the balance of this city, but the entire world." He pointed to the lantern on his desk. "We are holding the light that can get us through it safely." Then he pointed at me. "You, Ms. Graydon, are the spark."

Rudy plowed into the office. "I got your coffee here."

"Finally," Jack said.

"Hey, next time don't give Rosey da day off. I'm not a good homemaker."

"How do you take your coffee, Ms. Graydon?" Jack asked.

"Mr. Jack, she looks green."

Jack chuckled. "I just told her she has to help us save the world."

"Ah, all in a day's work around here, Ms. Velma," Rudy said slamming the coffee on the desk.

I wanted to pass out.

November 4, 1931

2008-01-21T09:31:00.000-05:00

Today I returned to Mrs. Vanderford's to pick up the signed document. It was from there that I had to travel to Brooklyn Heights and see my charge safely to Mr. John Rapalje. When I arrived Robert was there to hand me the document. "Mrs. Vanderford is playing tennis. She instructed me to give this only to you and call you a motorcar to take you to Brooklyn." His accent was slight, but just enough to pepper his words with intrigue.

"That won't be necessary," I said. I could barely look up at him. "I can take a train."

"Don't be foolish, the car is on it's way." He smiled adding a quiet pause to our interaction. "I play on Friday and Saturday nights at the Big Apple. If the mood strikes you. It's up in Harlem."

Suddenly a horn was blown from outside. "Thank you," I knew my face was turning red. "Is that my car?"

He opened the large door and peered out. "It is ma'lady." He held the door for me and then quickly opened the door to the car waiting by the curb. "Safe travels to Brooklyn." He shut the door before I could thank him again. I must say, and I only admit this to the page, Robert is the most charming man I have ever met.

"So we're going to da Heights, huh?" The capped driver said through his large cigar. "To Mr. Jack?"

"Excuse me?" I asked through the haze of smoke.

"Is this thing bothering you? The ladies never like it."

"My roommate loves them," I said thinking of Dottie shooting pool and smoking cigars. "It's fine."

"She must be some dame."

"Oh she is... Who is Mr. Jack?"

He looked in his mirror. "Da man you're going to see."

"His name is John Rapalje."

"Right and everyone who knows him well calls him Jack." I was amazed at his ability to drive while never looking at the road.

"You know him well?"

He smiled wide, "I'm his driver."

I felt a twinge of embarrassment. I forgot how green I am about some things. "He sent you all the way up here for me?"

"Uh huh. By da way, I'm supposed to be a proper gentleman and introduce myself. These was his instructions. I'm Rudy. My mudda called me Rudolpho but that was back when the nuns would hit me with rulers." He extended his hand into the back seat.

I shook it, "Nice to make your acquaintance, Rudy. I'm-"

"Ms. Graydon. I know. I got your whole run-down. I'd love to go up to them tracks up in Saratoga one day. I love playin' the ponies."

At this point, little shocked me, especially that people I would've ever dreamed of knowing knew more about me than my hall mates. "Oh in Saratoga they're horses, not ponies."

He started laughing through his cigar. "You're funny, Ms. Velma. Can I call you Ms. Velma? I hate last names. It's so formal"

"I see. Of course. You can actually call me Velma."

"No, no, not to a lady. It wouldn't be proper."

"Whatever you choose."

"Horses," he continued to laugh. For the life of me, I still can't figure out what he found so funny.

Some minutes later, he made a series of sharp turns and then one giant left turn onto a grand bridge. "Ever been to Brooklyn Ms. Velma?"

"No, this will be my first trip."

"Ever seen da Brooklyn Bridge?"

"No."

"Well you're on it. A marvel of human engineerin'."

He wasn't kidding. We drove through the cathedral-like towers and seemingly floated over the river. I'm not sure I had ever been that high in my life. Or at least high enough to see the entirety of Manhattan Island and the low rolling hills of Brooklyn. It looked like a patchwork of brownstones and churches. The river was spotted with ships and to the left, two other massive bridges. And then for the first time, I saw the Statue of Liberty. All at once I lost my breath.

"You've never seen dis have you? Your nose is on da glass."

He was right and my fingers too. "I apologize," realizing I was leaving smudge marks on the glass.

"No, please. It isn't often I show someone dis site for the first time. People, they forget when they do dis all the time. People forget you can see da ocean from here. Makes me proud to be home, Ms. Velma."

"I'll bet it does."

We made it over to the Brooklyn side and landed in a small neighborhood of quaint homes. "This is what they call Brooklyn Heights. I guess cause it's so high up."

EDITOR'S NOTE: The entry ends here and continues onto the November 6th. Velma offers no explanation as to why she stopped there.

November 1, 1931

2008-01-17T10:58:00.000-05:00

The ladies of Hewitt Hall sponsored an All Hallow's Eve party. There was punch and we wore masquerade masks decorated to look ghoulish. A girl from Syracuse suggested bobbing for apples, which was a favorite fall activity in Saratoga when I was a child. It was most fun. The most enjoyable thing was to watch Dottie and Sarah's reaction to putting their heads down into a bucket full of water. I believe at that moment they bonded as two girls from the city amongst many who weren't. They talked for near an hour, laughing and joking with one another.

When we went upstairs Dottie said, "I was pretty sure that Sarah girl was a wet sock, but she ain't really."

"I'm sure she'll be happy to know it," I told her. When we walked into the room, I expected Dottie to go right out and ready herself for a night at the Bakery. "Not going out tonight?"

Dottie smiled deviously. "Nah. Tonight is a night in. She pulled out a clear bottle of amber liquid. The hooch came to us."

I was immediately panicked. "DOTTIE, if they catch you you'll be expelled. They'll expel me for letting you do it."

She started laughing, "Who's gonna catch us? The head mistress has gone to a Halloween party over at Columbia. Besides, we're having a guest." Almost on cue there was a knock on the door. "Speakin' of the devil." She went over to open the door. When she did, Sarah was standing on the other side.

"SARAH!" I yelled out. "You should be home."

"Listen, mother, Ira knows I'm here. I told him I was spending the night uptown with my highly responsible friend, Velma." She shut the door and pulled three glasses out of her bag. "His response was, as he was handing me these three glasses, 'loosen that goyishe girl up.' So if anyone asks, this was an Ira-sponsored event."

"With a little help from Howie," Dottie said as she poured, what I assumed, was whiskey into the glasses. Dottie passed around the glasses. She raised hers up. "To the real spirits."

Sarah said, "To breaking Velma out of her school marm costume."

I started laughing as we clinked the glasses. And we drank. All night.

I'm neglecting to report how awful I feel at this moment for it's not the memory I want to keep.

READER NOTE

2008-01-15T15:49:00.000-05:00

The newest entry, October 28, 1931, is under the letter from Nick Fish, since I had started that entry first. The post was only recently finished. Sorry for any confusion.

Justin

AN UNEXPECTED EMAIL

2008-01-14T11:15:00.000-05:00

I found this in my gmail inbox on Saturday evening. It was one of the inspirations to explain why I had taken a week off. Apparently I'm being watched.

Dear Mr. Rivers:

Hello, my name is Nick Fish. I am Velma Graydon's current assistant. Although we haven't met, I know quite a bit about you from Ms. Graydon. She speaks highly of you. In October she informed me that you would be "blogging" her journals and was happy that you had volunteered for the job. She also said that you and a counterpart are working on a graphic novel involving some of the incidents covered in said journals. All of these projects sound exciting, but I was a bit dissappointed to see that you have neglected the blog now for over a week. I have not reported this to Velma, but she has asked me to begin printing the entries out so she can read them (more for her own amusement, I think). I told her I would start next week since we are both busy on a project and she would have little time to peruse them now. Consider it a friendly heads-up.

Also, Velma has finally completed the profile request you asked her for in November. She spent a great deal of time on the content. I will put the letter in the mail come Monday morning. Lastly, Velma said that, through a friend, she has come across a series of letters from Edwina Tulip of Brooklyn, New York to her sister Hazel Bumble of Southampton, England. She wanted me to relay that if you had interest in them, the Tulip family was ammendable to your using them in your research. Please let me know and I will pass those along as well.

Thank you for your time,

Sincerely,

Nick Fish.

My response:

Dear Mr. Fish,

Glad to meet you albeit over gmail. I assure you that I haven't abandoned the project. Just took some time off to rest the fingers. By Monday I will be back in action moving at a greater speed (I hope). As for Velma's letter, I greatly appreciate it and would love nothing more than to look at the letters from Edwina Tulip. I assume you have my address in Brooklyn.

Have a good one,
JR

October 28, 1931

2008-01-14T09:51:00.001-05:00

I doubt there will ever be anything like seeing Park Avenue for the first time. At 8:49 AM I stepped up to the heavily gilded door of an opulent building numbered 519. When I rang the bell, a valet appeared immediately asking if I was Ms. Graydon. I said yes and he let me into a large flower-filled foyer. White lilies everywhere. At the top of the stairs was a woman in a plain black dress donning large pearls around her neck. She also had the earrings to match. Around her neck, resting over the pearls, was a thin chain with a pair of spectacles at the end. I did not assume it was Mrs. Vanderford. For some reason I expected her to be more lavish.

She descended the stairs. "You are early, Ms. Graydon. A very admirable quality. One Professor Loockersmans told me to expect of you. And one I thank you for."

"My pleasure, Mrs. Vanderford," Although I was nervous in these surroundings, once I heard her voice I was at ease. She was a calm presence amidst the stuffy wealth around her.

"I've been told this is your first assignment."

"Yes ma'am, it is."

"I apologize that your first task is so dull. I assure you, there will be more interesting things to be done." She motioned toward two large doors on our left and we walked in that direction. A striking young gentlemen opened the doors. "Would you enjoy a cup of tea, Ms. Graydon?"

"Thank you."

"Good, I would as well." She nodded to the gentleman at the door. He closed it behind us and she offered me a seat opposite her petite desk. "I'm glad you are here." She smiled. "We so need someone young in our numbers."

I smiled not knowing what she meant.

"You haven't met the others yet have you?"

"No ma'am, I have not."

"And Professor Loockersmans hasn't informed you who you work for?"

"I was assuming it was him, ma'am."

She sat back in her chair staring out the large window that overlooked Park Avenue. I noticed her forehead gathering over her brow. "No, Ms. Graydon. He found you, but you do not work for him." She averted her gaze to the near-bare desk and picked up the lone fountain pen that rested on it. She began twirling it slowly. "I am not at liberty to say anything more, Ms. Graydon. You must meet Mr. Rapalje. He will tell you more." The tall gentleman walked into the room with the tea. I was shocked at the speed of the delivery. The service was of course silver. "Thank you, Robert. Ms. Graydon how do you take your tea?

He placed the service on the desk and began to pour into the china cups. "One sugar." He fixed one with two sugars and a dash of milk and handed it to Mrs. Vanderford who promptly placed the pen down on the desk.

"Thank you, Robert."

He went ahead and placed one sugar in my cup and handed it to me.

"Thank you." I said sheepishly.

"Robert is a musician, Ms. Graydon. Well, when he isn't here slaving over me." She smiled. "He plays the trumpet. Isn't that right, Robert?"

His face became rosy. He looked a bit embarrassed. "Yes, Mrs. Vanderford." I noticed the slightest hint of an accent. It was Anglo in nature but I couldn't immediately place it.

"I asked him to play for me, but he said it wouldn't be proper. Then I asked where he plays and said it wouldn't be proper for a lady of my standing to attend. So it's a pinch really. Perhaps Ms. Graydon can go and report back to me."

I felt my face go red with embarressment. Robert simply smiled.

"Thank you, Robert." He nodded his head and left the room.

"He plays that jazz that everyone loves up in Harlem. He's parents came over from Scotland when he was six. His father manages my stables up in the Bronx."

I decided not to contribute that my father had a ranch in Saratoga. I made it my business not to become too friendly. I would be courteous and professional.

"Well Ms. Graydon, I'll take my package now."

"Oh, yes." I opened up my green satchel which I purchased especially for the job. I took out the envelope and handed it to her carefully.

After placing the spectacles to her eyes, she opened the document, took the pen and signed the front sheet. "That's that, then. It is done." I so wanted to ask what, but I didn't. "Your next duty will be to see this safely delivered to Mr. John Rapalje of Henry Street, Brooklyn. Unfortunately he will not be in town until next Friday. Thus I will keep the document and you can return it then." She smiled and then sipped her tea. "Seems like such a waste, all this running about for signatures."

I said nothing but sipped my tea politely.

"You'll see it all clearly, Ms. Graydon. The pieces will fit together nicely some day."

She kept telling me it was important work that I was doing. I just kept thinking that I had no idea what I had gotten myself into.

October 27, 1931

2008-01-03T21:43:00.000-05:00

After class I went to Loockersmans's office for my first assignment. When I arrived, Loockersmans was no where to be found. Harold said that he was unexpectedly called away and he had left a package for me to deliver. He took a large yellow envelope out of the giant desk drawer and handed it to me. Upon my initial examination I found no addressee.

"Where does it go?" I asked Harold.

He looked at me blankly for a moment and then it occurred to him. "Oh right, I'm supposed to give this to you as well. Follow me."

We walked to Harold's desk outside of Loockersmans's office and there was a white envelope with my name across it. "He told me to give this to you." He handed it to me sheepishly. "I still don't know why I can't do this for him. I am his assistant."

I looked at him a bit taken back by the jealous tone of his voice. "I'm not quite sure either. Perhaps he doesn't want to bog you down with useless tasks."

"No, you're special. He says it. Only you can do this for him."

Of course, I was very uncomfortable by this. Amidst my confusion as to what it is I am actually doing in this post, I still was not quite sure why the professor found me so promising, nor why he was insistent on me taking this job.

"I'm sure its nothing like any of that," I said to him. "Thanks for your help, Harold."

"Good luck," he said to me. I thanked him again and left.

Once I returned to my room I opened the white envelope.

It said simply:

Velma,
Deliver this package to a Mrs. Caroline Vanderford at 519 Park Avenue. It is between 59th and 60th Streets. She is expecting you tomorrow morning by 9 AM.
--GL

And so it begins.

December 12, 1931

2007-12-24T16:29:00.000-05:00

This is Velma's posting from December 12, 1931 given to you on Christmas as per her request. I can see why she feels this is fitting. Happy Holidays to all who read.

Needing a break from my grueling final's preparation, I decided to do some Christmas shopping for my family. Now that I am earning a side income, I feel obliged to repay those who have shown me kindness and love in the past.I also had it in my mind to find little gifts for Dottie and Sarah even though Hanukkah ended for her two days ago. Both have helped to make New York City feel a bit more like home for me during these past three months.

I have heard Abby say that the only places worth shopping in New York are either Bergdorf Goodman or Saks Fifth Avenue. I'm sure I can afford neither, but I thought it would be fun just to take a trip downtown by myself and see what treasures I could find. So I rode the IRT downtown to 50th street and walked across to Fifth Avenue. I was told that both stores were within walking distance of each other, Saks Fifth Avenue being on 49th street and Bergdorff Goodman's being on 58th street. Once I reached Fifth Avenue, I noticed the towering Sak's which stood with its rigid canopies and faux columns like a giant gift box under St. Patrick's Cathedral. What grand sights to see standing next to one another. When I walked through the doors, I was amazed by what was on the other side. Like Alice stepping into Wonderland, I was in another world, one that was completely unknown to me. The smells of perfumes and powders immediately caught my nose, as my eyes spied these giant trees that wrapped up the columns of this marvelous room. There were white lights wrapped around every branch which made the store look positively magical.

Wandering around, I noticed that many people where looking, but not buying much. I have heard that since the Depression is taking its toll on all classes, people are less concerned with gifts and more concerned with putting food on their table. Walking through the women's department I saw a rainbow of cashmere scarves lied out on a mahogany table. I just loved the look of them and decided that I would purchase one for Dottie and one for Sarah, and green since all three of us love the color green. My mother's favorite color is blue, so I picked a blue one for her. Then I went and bought simple pins that suited the personalities of each of the women. A diamond shape for Dottie because she is a diamond in the rough, a locket pin for Sarah so she could put a small photograph in there. My mother would a receive a horse pin for when she goes to the races.

I went upstairs to the men's section and decided on silk neck ties for my brother and father. Although the event, rarely presents itself that they would wear them, I thought it would be nice for them to have for holidays and special occasions. When I brought my purchases up to the cashier who, I think, was amazed to see a girl of my age with such expensive tastes. When he rang the total, which I shall not record here, he asked if I was interested in opening a charge account at the store. I told him that would not be necessary. He then asked if I wanted the items gift wrapped and I said, of course. He packaged them and told me to take them to the gift wrapping room on the fifth floor. I did so. I choose different wrappings for each of the the people I was giving, which made the young woman behind the counter less than happy.

When I was through I exited out to Fifth Avenue and saw the most peculiar thing. Directly across the street from the store were heaping mounds of earth behind make-shift fences. There were dump trucks and bulldozers all standing dormant. A sign on the fence read, "FUTURE SITE OF THE JOHN D. ROCKEFELLER CENTER." It went on to say that it was going to be a complex of fourteen commercial buildings. I found the optimism of the sign and the size of the lot odd considering most development has been halted due to the Depression. The stranger sight was a line of men waiting beneath a 30-foot pine tree. It was wrapped haphazardly with garland, as if decorated for Christmas. At first I thought it was another breadline. But then I realized the men were being handed slips of paper. Most likely paychecks by the looks of their faces. Seeing as they had lunch pails and hard hats, I presumed they were being paid for their labor. I can only assume that the Christmas tree was erected in celebration of the work which is so scarce. The Christmas of 1931 would, perhaps, be the best for them. One they would never forget.

I wanted to run and tell Sarah to photograph the picture because I doubt there would be a sight like it again. It was an obvious impossibility so I walked up Fifth Avenue content to keep the image and feeling in my heart.

ON THE PHONE WITH VELMA #3

2007-12-20T12:25:00.000-05:00

ON THE PHONE WITH VELMA #3

NOTE: On Monday night I found two Christmas cards in my mailbox both with my name and address on them and both with Velma’s handwriting. I opened each. They were from Velma but, I assumed one of them was not meant for me.

VELMA: Hallo!

JUSTIN: Hi Velma, it’s Justin.

V: Hey there sweetheart. How are ya?

J: Great… Look I was calling because of your Christmas cards.

V: Oh did you get it?

J: I did and—

V: —I got yours. That pig is cute (my Christmas card had Olivia on it) and the note was very nice.

J: Thanks. As for yours, I got two from you.

V: Two? I didn’t send you two.

J: I’m not exactly sure if the other one was meant for me.

V: Wait a minute, did you get the card about the office and no one doing work.

J: Yeah, I got that one.

V: What did the other one say?

J: Something about unwrapping me under the Christmas tree.

V: Shit! Yeah that wasn’t meant for you. I wasn’t getting’ fresh with ya or anything. (She starts laughing)

J: Although I was flattered, I figured as much.

V: Well when you reach 91 sometimes your ducks get outta their rows.

J: Would you like me to send it back to you?

V: Nah, keep it. I’ll send another one off to the intended party.

J: I won’t ask who the intended party is.

V: Good, cause I ain’t tellin’. We gotta keep some things sacred right, kid?

J: As much as possible.

V: But you did get my note about the entry to your readers?

J: I did, and I’m working on it as we speak.

V: Cause you’re not done with ’31 yet are you?

J: No.

V: God bless your delicate constitution.

J: God bless all of us.

V: Right. Ok. Look if I don’t talk to you, have a merry merry and sorry about the mix up.

J: You too. Not a problem

V: Bye now.

So I’ve attached Velma’s cards with this posting for your viewing pleasure and the next entry will jump to December 12, 1931 as per Velma’s request. I will then go back to finish October and November. Enjoy.

Thanks to Courtney Zell for scanning the cards.

October 20, 1931

2007-12-17T10:51:00.000-05:00

DREAMS:

I was at a formal garden party. I was dressed well. In white. I walked into a large white tent full of people who did not know me. They were sitting at tables donned with crisp white linen table clothes and large floral centerpieces. I took special note of this, and I have no idea why. A woman with dark hair was following me and I remember having the feeling that I was in danger. A faceless man stopped her from pursuing me. I woke up short of breath.

I feel back asleep.

Then I found myself on a river bank. The river was very wide and the bank was marshy. I remember looking into the water and seeing my reflection. I woke to the morning.

I marched into Dutch class today and told Loockersmans that I would accept his post. He said that he sensed a new found air of confidence in me. I thanked him and sat at my desk a little relieved that the decision was made. I guess I have a new found talent of hiding my true feelings because I'm still nervous about the whole affair. After class he told me to report to his academic office in one week's time for my first assignment.

October 19, 1931

2007-12-14T09:45:00.001-05:00

I have been sleeping restlessly for the past few nights, which is not typical. In Saratoga I would sleep straight through the night, or the through the world ending as mother would say.

I feel as though I am having a string of nonsensical dreams that when I wake, I cannot even begin to recall. They are so erratic. I think I am going to start writing down these images as they come to me. Perhaps they are pieces to a larger puzzle. More likely, they are the product of an anxious mind. Regardless, My thoughts are out of sorts and it must be tied up in this post that was offered to me by Professor Loockersmans. Tomorrow is the day I'm supposed to accept or decline the offer and I still have not made a firm decision either way. Part of me feels I need to break out and do it and another wants to run in the other direction.

Sarah's consul on the matter was clear. She said I have no reason not to try. If I don't feel comfortable I could just resign instead of living with the regret of never having tried. She also said that Loockersmans is doing this as a service to a student that ,he feels, has promise. She said she's heard of these kinds of things happening before. As she was wise to remind me: "It's one of the reason we go to Barnard."

October 16, 1931

2007-12-11T15:28:00.000-05:00

Dinner last night was the grandest time I’ve had in a good while. Sarah and I did walk east to the elevated Second Avenue line. The train itself was much like any other except higher in the air and more rickety. It stopped quite a bit and there was a great deal of rocking back and forth. This was all offset by a symphony of banging and clanging. It didn’t much seem to bother any one else, but at one point I did feel a little sick in my stomach.

Once we arrived downtown at a stop called Grand Street, we stepped off the train into a patchwork of tenements and brownstones. I’ve never seen streets so packed with people. From the languages I heard there was German, Yiddish, Italian, and even a little Spanish being flung through the air. The sidewalks were almost four or five people deep on both sides of the street. On the curbs were pushcarts full of wares being peddled. Meats, cheeses, and even barrels of pickled vegetables lined the streets. Sarah directed me toward Madison Street and we came upon the Schimberg Family Kosher Deli. The golden letters on the window were written in both English and Hebrew characters. When we walked in Sarah’s father, Ira, boisterously greeted us. He instantly hugged me and said he was so happy to meet me. It was a warm gesture even though his embrace had a smell of cured meats to it.

He promptly closed the deli and the three of us walked up a backset of stairs to the Schimberg’s apartment. I’m beginning to think that all of New York is a series of back staircases. The apartment was small and cluttered. There were piles of books strewn about in all corners. Apparently Mr. Schimberg is an avid reader. I instantly could smell something like a roast cooking on the stove.

“I made a brisket,” Mr. Schimberg said.

“Ewww brisket, pop. You went all out huh?” Sarah said.

“I figured what better way to introduce the Jews to a girl from Saratoga.” He laughed. I wasn’t sure how to respond.

“It smells delicious.” I said.

“Well it should. I’ve been cooking it for five hours.” He laughed again. It seemed that all his statements were punctuated with laughter. It put me at ease immediately.

Dinner was dressed with boiled potatoes and cole slaw. We stuffed ourselves while we discussed everything from horse racing to the Depression. Mr. Schimberg is a very educated man. He was telling me that his father came to New York from Germany in the 1870’s. He started his business out of a pushcart on Essex Street selling pickles and whatever meats he could get off the boats on South Street. From there his business grew and in 1909 he finally saved enough to buy the building that we were sitting in.

“That’s why I’ve been able to fair through this damn Depression. I didn’t have a bank breathing down my neck. My other tenants are giving me whatever they can. And who doesn’t need a good deli, right?”

Sarah offered, “And what about banks, pop?”

“Please, don’t get me started. They’re all a bunch of crooks, even before this crash. Never went to one. Never will. Why am I goin’ to let some grimy suit take my money when I can keep it here.”

“Pop keeps his entire life savings in his father’s old pickle barrels.”

“So when that house of cards fell, I was none the wiser,” he laughed.

After dinner, Sarah brought me to her room where she showed me photographs of her mother. It was then that she told me her mother died of stomach cancer when she was four years old. Sarah’s grandfather was a professional portrait photographer, which is why she had so many photographs of her. She confided in me that she wanted to become a photographer herself, even though her father was sending her to Barnard to be a teacher. She saved up some of the money she made in the deli to buy herself a camera. Under her bed she pulled a box of photos she’s taken and developed herself. Most of them were of her surrounding neighborhood and the people in it. Although I know nothing of photography she has a wonderful eye for people in natural situations.

I regretted having to leave but it was getting late and I had an early class. Mr. Schimberg was gracious enough to put me in a taxicab back to campus. What lovely people they were. So happy to have found them.

October 15, 1931

2007-12-10T15:13:00.001-05:00

Tonight I go to dinner at Sarah’s home on Madison Street. She says it might serve us well to walk to the elevated line on the east side. She said she's a walker and doesn't mind hiking going across town. I said that I didn't either. I haven’t been out east yet. By the way she speaks, Sarah makes this Lower East Side to seem almost magical. I can hardly wait to see it. She also informed me that her father is a very jovial man and likes to kid around with all of her friends. Apparently she has an extensive network of neighborhood comrades. She said that she had a feeling that a sense of humor might scare me since I don't seem to have one. She laughed out loud when she said it, but I think she's right. I might be much too serious for my own good. I think I need to laugh more. I wonder if there's a way to work on that. Perhaps a book of jokes will help. Perhaps I'm hopeless. No one laughed in the Graydon household. We were workers. We barely spoke at dinner. Mother liked things quiet around the house.

Speaking of mothers, I have noticed that there has been no mention of Sarah’s mother. She has never brought her up in conversation and I have not had the courage to ask. I can only hope that it is the best of all possible situations. I'm not completely sure what I mean by that.

Regardless, I am excited for a new neighborhood and a ride on public transportation. It will be a refreshing change from bakery speakeasies and menacing Dutch professors. All which have been weighing heavy on my mind lately.

October 14, 1931

2007-12-05T09:52:00.000-05:00

I went back to the speakeasy last night for my meeting with Professor Loockersmans. It was a a bit of a humbling experience to ask Dottie if she would accompany me. When I asked she simply looked at me and said, "You wanna go back? On a Tuesday night?" I told her that it was for purely academic reasons. She laughed and said she would gladly bring me there. I'm not quite sure but the idea of her going with me, comforted me. I thought that if anything were to go wrong, Dottie wouldn't hesitate to jump in and protect me. It was most likely an irrational thought.

Much proceeded as it did the last time I went to the Bakery. The secret codes, the dark alley, Mick and Rick or Rick and Mick. I did not don the trench. When I arrived inside Dottie headed for the bar and engaged the bartender, Fox in conversation. She came over to me standing sheepishly in the corner. "Fox says Look is sending someone down to bring you to his office." She looked at me and winked. My heart sank. I realized she thought I was going to engage in some indiscretion with my professor. "Dottie, it's nothing like that?"

She smiled, "Sure alright. There's nothin' wrong with workin' for your grades." She nudged me on the shoulder. "Girls do it all the time."

"How disgusting," I gasped.

Dottie ran over to Fox and ordered two whiskies. She brought one over to me. "Look, this time, not so fast, unless you think can handle it."

I hesitated and then in one breath thought it might just help me relax since my nerves had been getting the best of me for the past week. I took a small sip. The burning sensation was indescribable. I gagged a little. Then I took another sip. It wasn't so bad. Neither was the third sip.

"Thatta girl," Dottie was almost proud. She took a large sip of hers. "You know Abby is having it off with her literature professor." I nearly choked. "No one's suppose to know. So that's between you and me. Got it?"

"Yes of course," I said smiling a little bit on the inside. Dottie confided in me and Abby was not the perfect girl she tried so hard to be.

"Girl's got no self-esteem. I don't get rich dames."

"You two seem to be very close." I said now feeling comfortable to say it.

Dottie grimaced, "Nah. She was using me for booze. Howie had a connection to get some bottles onto campus. She wanted them for entertainin' her other society dames. Not my scene. Once she got the hooch, she booked."

"She went home with you though," I said.

"No. She couldn't handle Brooklyn. Ma says those girls have broomsticks up their asses. You think I'm refined, you should see ma."

In the middle of our conversation Mick or Rick came up to me. "Hiya Velma, Mr. Look is ready to see you." It really bothered me that I was not able to distinguish between the two of them.

I downed the rest of my whisky. "Good luck," Dottie said.

I handed her my glass, "Thanks." I followed Mick/Rick to the back of the room where a black curtain was pulled back to reveal a black door. It was opened from the inside. We walked in and down a hallway lit by gaslamps, which I found strange. We stopped at the end of the hall. "Mr. Look. I got Velma here."

The door again opened from the inside. Professor Lockersmanns was sitting behind a huge mahogany desk in a room stacked high of books and ancient maps. He stood up. "Rick, be gracious and refer to her as Ms. Graydon."

"Sorry, Ms. Graydon." Rick said.

"I don't mind using Velma." I said nervously.

"Thank you, Rick, you can go. Wait outside until we're done." He left and the door was closed by Harold who was standing behind it. "You remember Harold?" Loockersmans asked. "Have a seat, please." He motioned to one of the chairs opposite his desk.

"Yes, hello Harold." I sat.

"Hello," He said standing in the corner.

Loockersmans sat. "I'll make this brief, Ms. Graydon. I'd like to offer you a job. A way for you to make not only a side-income but also contacts that could help you in the future."

I squirmed in my seat. "What type of job?"

He smiled, "I need you to be a messenger for me. But not just any ordinary messenger. You will be delivering top secret transmissions to different members of one of the oldest societies in this city. It is a job that will require you to be alert, focused, and most importantly, to be fluent in many languages."

"But I'm not," I blurted.

"But you are and you will be. I've seen your records. I've searched far and wide for you, Ms. Graydon." There was a pause and I really had no idea what to think of that statement. "Who do you think it is who approved your scholarship? Who do you think it is who placed you in Dutch when German was closed?" My throat felt like it was closing up. I couldn't swallow. "Don't look so frightened you are a student of the utmost promise. You don't realize how important this job I am asking you to do is."

I felt Harold staring into the back of my head while Loockersmans grinned his way through his offer. "What do I have to do?" I scraped from the back of my throat.

"Do you accept?"

"Do I have a choice?"

He smiled wider. "Of course you do. You are not obligated to this. Although If I were you I would view it as an honor and a privilege, it does not affect the status of your scholarship."

I wanted to say no right at the moment. But there was something greater in me that hesitated to say anything. "I honestly do not know what to say, Professor."

"Why don't you try it and if it does not suit you, then you are free to leave and continue your studies... I assure you Ms. Graydon, there is nothing unlawful or nefarious about these dealings. This operation is a separate dealing. Your work would only deal with bringing and at times translating messages between members of this society."

"What is the society?"

He shuffled in his chair. "If you except, you will meet the President and he will be able to explain more to you."

I said nothing. I was still not assured of anything with him obviously withholding information.

"Take a week to think about it. You can give me your answer at any time before then. But I want you to seriously think about it."

"I thank you for the offer Professor, I am honored. And I will consider it." I'm not positive I meant what I said. "Am I free to leave?" I stood up.

He stood, "Of course. Thank you for coming." Harold opened the door. "Oh and Ms. Graydon, feather to left is Rick, and feather to the right is Mick." I did not quite understand him.

When I walked out into the hallway, Rick was waiting for me. The first thing I noticed was his hat. The was a yellow feather pinned to the right side of it. My immediate thought was, how in the world did Loockersmans know I was struggling with identifying those two?

So I went back and found Dottie. We had another whiskey. All in the course of an hour I became a card-carrying law breaker.

And I have not an ounce of guilt for it.

October 13, 1931

2007-12-03T09:01:00.000-05:00

I just woke from the strangest dream and feel compelled to record it.

I was walking in broad daylight past a series of stately townhouses, I presume somewhere in this city. It didn't feel like Saratoga, but it could have been. Then in an instant, the sun went dark and I was in an open field. There was raging water all around me and I could feel it growing colder. A woman came directly up to me from, what seemed to be, nowhere. She was young. Her dress was not modern, but almost colonial, a long skirt and apron. Her long hair fell out of a tattered bonnet and her face was pale. She handed me a feather. It was long and blue with a dark blue blotch at the top of it. It was the most beautiful feather I had ever seen from an extremely exotic bird. I swore I could feel every inch of it in my hand. Suddenly this girl ran away as it grew completely dark around me. Then I woke.

How strange. I rarely remember my dreams. This one I fear I'll never forget.

I'm blaming all of this on my nerves. My meeting with Professor Loockersmans is tonight. I can't even imagine what I'm getting into.

October 11, 1931

2007-11-28T15:29:00.000-05:00

The day was brisk. A good one to stay in and read, but not for pleasure I'm afraid. I have a term paper due on the Russian Revolution and am knee-deep in Marxism, which, after awhile is a little like plainsong; it's all one note. Socialism and Communism do not sit well with me. The ideas look very nice on paper, but I do not trust even the most idealistic of leaders to carry them out properly. There are quite a few people on our brother campus who believe it's the only way civilization will be able to survive the reminder of the century. Excuse me for sounding pessimistic but I find the whole idea bull roar. Socially responsible democracy is the order of the day. I'm not exactly sure what that makes me politically. Although I do not consider myself a political person.

Now the evening has settled in, some of the girls are returning from their weekends away. Dottie was in the room all day yesterday held up with a paralyzing headache. I assume this is from the drink. She did not say much, but Abby has not called on her for two days. This has raised an eyebrow since they have hardly spent a day apart in the last two weeks. She woke this morning and told me she was headed home for dinner and would return Monday morning.

I did receive a letter Friday from mother. She said that conditions in Saratoga were grim. The tracks are now overrun with bookies and undesirables who are betting on horses as a means of income. She said they are single-handedly bringing down the caliber of the entire town. The Depression is now affecting everyone and everything. She says my father has no opinion on this matter since money is being laid down and his horses are being used. She also confided in me, that Henry is engaging in some of this gambling as a means of recreation. I fear he'll never further his education and leave Saratoga. He is very content being one of dad's stable hands. I assume he hopes to take over the family business.

Sarah has invited me to her home for dinner with her father this coming Thursday night. She will escort me down via the IRT after her class. It will be my first ride on a city train. And it will my first time on the Lower East Side. For both of these events I am excited. I only have to get through my Tuesday night meeting with Professor Loockersmans. I'm still very much on edge.

October 8, 1931

2007-11-25T17:04:00.000-05:00

Besides being extremely nervous about Professor Loockersmans's proposition, the past two days have been uneventful. I have walked in on Dottie and Abby having hushed conversations. When I come through the door, they politely excuse themselves and leave. I have not had the courage to ask Dottie why there is so much secrecy to their friendship. I know the curiosity is eating at the other ladies in the Hall and now it's doing the same to me.

Although I have not mentioned her yet, I have befriended a very agreeable girl by the name of Sarah Shimberg. She is from New York City and was raised on, what she frequently calls, the Lower East Side. She is here on partial scholarship because Mr. Schimberg, her father, is the owner of a kosher Jewish deli that has thrived despite the Depression. Sarah does not have the benefit of living on campus, she goes home every night on the IRT. She says that this saves her father the expense of board and she can still help in the deli, all of which I find very admirable of her.

We came to know each other over a study session in our Modern American Literature class. There was a small, but detailed paper due on Thomas Stearns Eliot's poem "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." We were to discuss the significance of Eliot's use of the epigraph from Dante's Inferno and how it related to the content of the poem. It was a dense topic largely because we had to translate the Italian first. We safely saw each other through it. On more than a couple of occasions since, we have shared a lunch or two finding we have many common interests. She is also an avid reader and a lover of language. She is fluent is English, Yiddish, and German. She says you have to be to live on the Lower East Side.

I've noticed that some of the other girls from other areas of the country do not know how to handle someone of the Jewish faith. Of course, I have never had a Jewish friend being from Saratoga, but she is no different from anyone else. It's the same way they look at Dottie, but with almost more reservation. I guess I'm immune to their judgements because I am Protestant like them. Honestly, I am not religious. Although I strongly doubt most of these girls are either. I have a stronger feeling that it has to do with wealth. Growing up in Saratoga I saw this type of behavior at the spas and at the racetrack. It is a sad state of affairs when people are judged not on their character but on the size of their wallets. I'm happy to have no part of that. Some day education will be the great equalizer.

October 6, 1931

2007-11-19T11:40:00.000-05:00

The strangest turn of events happened today. I woke and went to class nearly forgetting that Professor Loockersmans would be back from his language symposium. When I arrived he was standing at the door looming over everyone entering. I nervously passed by him and he placed his hand on my shoulder.

"Ms. Graydon?"

I stopped and turned like a little child caught by father, "Yes, Professor?"

"Come to seem me after class in my office."

It was all I could to look him in the eye, "Yes, sir."

The class itself seemed to drone on for hours. The Professor offered no explanation as to why he was absent the last two weeks, which I found unprofessional. He went right into the text speaking of negation. All I kept hearing was "neit," "neit," "neit." I was not paying attention at all. Suddenly, Professor Loockersmans barked at me, "Mw. Graydon, luister u?"

I jumped out of my daze and quickly replied, "Ja, Professor." I noticed the students looking around at each other in amazement. It just came out of me and I'm not quite sure from where. We really had not started conversing in class since it was a introductory course. I saw a slight smirk come across his face.

After class, the Professor asked me to walk with him to his office. We crossed over Broadway to Columbia's campus. He did not say a word the entire way and neither did I. It felt like a death march honestly. I pictured a scaffold and hooded executioner waiting for me.

We took the stairs to the third floor of one of the smaller nondescript building facing Barnard's campus. His office was ample, centered around a large mahogany desk and a wall that was covered, floor-to-ceiling with massive old tomes. His window looked out onto Barnard. I noticed a lantern sitting on his desk, which struck me as immediately odd.

He asked me to sit at one of the two chairs opposite his desk. I thanked him. He sat and said, "You are disappointed in me for running a speakeasy?"

I couldn't open my mouth. There was something about his demeanor. I was completely unsettled by him.

"I understand. You're idealistic. But I know for a fact, in time, Prohibition will be over and sooner than you think."

"But it's illegal at the moment," I couldn't believe I said it.

"Charming, Ms. Graydon. Really."

I couldn't find anything to say and become nervous with the silence. "Professor, why am I here?"

"I assume you wanted to tell me you were dropping my class because I am a criminal." He smirked and what a cold one it is.

How did he know? My next thought was that Dottie told him. "I was seriously considering it," I mumbled. I was more frightened than I wanted to be. I wanted to fearless.

"What if I told you my establishment was run in cooperation with the City of New York?"

I didn't speak.

"Ms. Graydon, there are many forces at work, in these times. The world is in grave danger and we are coming upon greater troubles. People are starving, governments all over the world are falling and rising, and there are people with dangerous ideas taking advantage of this."

I still had nothing intelligent to say.

"So, you see. Consumption of alcohol is the least of our problems."

Harold barged in through the door. "Ohhh, Professor, I didn't realize you were back."

"Yes Harold, the door being shut, should have been an indication."

He looked down at the floor. What an awkward thing. "Yes, Professor."

"No matter, Harold, you know Ms. Graydon?"

"Yes,"

"Nice seeing you again, Harold," I said.

He smiled not saying anything to me. "Professor, Mr. Rapalje telephoned. He said if you could ring him as soon as possible."

"Thank you, Harold. I will."

Harold shut the door and the Professor rolled his eyes, "He's really quite intelligent. I know it doesn't show." He looked at me frozen still with fear. "Ms. Graydon, you are here for another reason. To put it bluntly, I need you."

My heart lept up to my throat. "Whatever for?"

"Believe it or not, not only are you a gifted linguist, but you are also a keen observer. And I have a job for you that will require all of your skills."

"I don't understand. I just arrived last month. How ever can I help?"

"Tell me, Ms. Graydon, what was the color of the first door of the speakeasy?"

"Red."

"And the second?"

"Green."

He smirked again, like he did after I answered him in him in class, "Now if I asked my two doormen, they would not have a clue, neither would any of the other patrons for that matter."

"I still don't understand how I can be of service to you."

"If interested, and I know you are, I will explain it all to you. Meet me next Tuesday night at my establishment. Ask for Rick to take you to my office. And I assure you, I'm not asking you to bootleg alcohol."

He stood up from behind his desk and went to his door. I stood with what seemed like my knees knocking. "Thank you, Professor," was all I could utter.

"Don't be nervous, Velma. The world is opening wide to you now."

Harold came to the door and showed me out of the office. I was in such a state I was nearly hit by a checker cab crossing on Broadway. My stomach is still in knots and the world has completely turned upside down.

October 4, 1931

2007-11-16T10:53:00.000-05:00

The tops of the trees are turning bright yellows and reds. Thinking of it, the colors must be brilliant at home. The first weekend in October is always best for foliage in Saratoga. There's nothing like riding one of dad's horses through the fields in the fall.

When I woke, I found Hewitt Hall completely quiet. Dottie came home as day was breaking. She washed herself up and by 8 was heading for the train home. I'm not sure if Abby accompanied her or not. She doesn't share this kind of information with me lately. Since our night out a few weeks ago, I think Dottie looks at me as an embarrassment. She's distant and I have a feeling the story of my fainting spell has traveled, especially at the hand of Abby who is a vicious gossip. I can't help but think all of these girls see me as awkward and stuck-up.

I'm afraid this all amounted to terrible homesickness and an awful case of self-pity. So I took a walk this afternoon as a remedy. I wandered north on Broadway. I found myself in a patchwork of tenement neighborhoods with a variety of languages being spoken on the streets. They were Italian and German mostly. It was a thrill to see this people side-by-side peppered with the brogues of Irishmen. The more I thought I should turn around and head back to campus, the further north I walked. To my delight the terrain became varied. There were steep hills abutting the neighborhoods and rock formations like I’d never seen. Almost like buildings themselves.

I made my way up a street called Fort Washington Avenue which ran along a series of steep cliffs that looked out on the Hudson. At its zenith was a high-walled park. A plaque commemorates the spot as Fort Washington where Revolutionary troops where defeated by Hessians in November, 1776. It says years later, Washington and his army marched back to the fort triumphantly and reclaimed it when the war was won. How I would have loved to have been there. To fight for that incredibly noble cause. How thrilling to think of the history that drenches this island. There is so much hope in history.

I turned south and slowly walked back to campus, new, hoping for my noble cause.

October 1, 1931

2007-11-14T12:33:00.000-05:00

September seemed to race right by me what with all my academic responsibilities. I still have not had the chance to properly explore the city and it is my biggest regret to date. Most of my days are spent writing papers or working out mundane Dutch translations. In regards to that, I have a firm grasp of the basic written language, but speaking is a bear and understanding someone speaking is far worse. I have to remind myself that I've only been working at it for three weeks. I must not get discouraged, although my professor is a potential criminal and that is discouragement enough. Harold says he will be back to conduct class on Tuesday. I am interested to hear of his travels.

Dottie is never in our room. She is constantly with Abby who is rumored to be visiting the bakery speakeasy on a nightly basis. The girls are still all aflutter about this friendship especially with the newest scuttlebutt that Abby may accompany Dottie home this weekend for Sunday dinner. The society girls say it is virtually unheard of for a girl to go any further south than the Heights nowadays. This of course means nothing to me, but apparently it speaks volumes to them.

Although I would rather die than admit it. I am jealous. There is a part of me that wants nothing more than to be invited to the Cento home in Brooklyn. It seems like an adventure I would enjoy. Honestly I would cherish the opportunity to take the BMT or the IRT for that matter. With this new month, I’ll make it a point to spread my wings and explore. They say the new Empire State Building is a marvel. Perhaps that will be first on my agenda.

On the Phone with Velma #2

2007-11-12T13:54:00.001-05:00

This is a transcript of a phone conversation with Velma that took place on Sunday, November 11 at 2:32 PM.

VELMA: Hallo!

JUSTIN: Velma?

V: Yeah?

J: It's Justin.

V: Yep. (She sounds like she's not sure.)

J: I'm blogging the journals.

V: Yeah sweetheart, I know who you are.

J: Oh cause I wasn't--

V: -I'm not senile yet, dear. And I can hear, so don't talk loud. No need for it.

J: Was I talking loud?

V: No, but I'm just sayin' cause it drives me crazy when people assume I can't hear.

J: Got it.

V: So what can I do ya for?

J: I was calling to see if you were interested in my readership knowing more about you?

V: They're reading my journals, how much more do they need to know?

J: I mean a profile.

V: I hate my profile. I got a nose like a coat hook.

J: (Here we go) No, Velma it's not a picture.

V: Oh a photograph?

J: No. A short description of your interests. Words.

V: Wait! (Pause) Are people reading these conversations? You're not writing these out are you?

J: Ummm--

V: Cause I don't think like I speak.

J: Velma, they can't hear you.

V: I know the difference between a phone and a computer screen. If I had you in front of me, I'd clock you square in the nose.

J: (I don't doubt she would) The website just wants to know the kind of books you read. The type of music you listen to. Ya know, your interests. (That was me changing the subject)

V: (Pause) This isn't for a dating site is it? I'm not looking for that right now.

J: (I chuckle) No, it's a blog, not Match.

V: Yeah, alright, when I have a minute I'll write you a letter with some things you can include.

J: No email huh? It would be so much quicker.

V: My assistant has one. My eyes are awful, I can't stare at that damn screen. You'll get a letter.

J: Okay, good enough.

V: What date you up to?

J: Ahh, I just did September 27.

V: What year?

J: 1931.

V: For the love of God, you're delicate.

J: Completely.

V: I shoulda gave them to some dame at Katherine Gibbs. Alright, get lost and get typin'. And don't waste your time typing out these conversations.

J: I won't.

V: I don't believe you.

J: Have a good one, Velma.

V: Yeah, okay. Bye.

September 27, 1931

2007-11-08T09:14:00.000-05:00

There is still no sign of Professor Loockersmans. His nasally assistant, Harold said that he was attending a language symposium held by the Dutch government in Amsterdam. I wonder.

I've come to the conclusion that Dottie has an incredible ability to be a social chameleon. Thinking back to her rough and tumble ways last week at the bakery, I realize she is a bit more refined now on campus. I put great stress on "a bit." I would love to study how her language pattern changes in different social situations. I can only imagine how she is with her mother and dad back in Brooklyn. And I wonder all this only because I've noticed she has taken up with this high society girl by the name of Abigail Putnam. To her friends she is known simply as Abby. Word around campus is that Dottie and she have become fast friends. This has been puzzling the other girls here in Hewitt Hall since Abby vowed she would never associate with anyone on full scholarship.

Abby is Boston money if you couldn't tell by the staunch New England name. Her father owns a large shipping business. Dottie's father is in bricklaying. It just does not make sense to me. Regardless, Dottie does not speak the same with Abigail as she does with her associates at the speakeasy or even with me. It's fascinating.

September 21, 1931

2007-11-07T09:21:00.000-05:00

When I came to, I found myself in a small room. Mick or Rick was sitting at a table playing cards with himself; presumably solitaire. I was laying on a old, moldy sofa. Mick or Rick immediately heard me rustle then moan as my cottony mouthed sounded for water.

"How ya feelin'?" He said not looking up from his game.

"Thirsty," I said.

"Ya went down like a tonna bricks Dottie says." No offer of water.

"I felt like a ton of bricks," I assured.

He looked at me while I struggled to pick my body up off the sofa. "I'm Rick by the way. I know you was thinkin' it. Our own mudda couldn't tell us apart."

"Where am I?" I asked.

"You're in the kitchen. Well, the side room off the kitchen. This is a bakery see."

"Yes, I got that." I was irritable I admit.

"We always gotta clear out of here by 4 bells so they can start bakin'."

That made me think of it. "What time is it?"

He looked at his watch. "'Bout midnight. I was asked to watcha till you came to."

"By whom," I asked.

"The boss," he said.

Then I remembered my whole reason for coming to this Godforsaken place. "Who's your boss?" The reinstatement of my mission gave me energy.

"He says he knows you."

My heart began racing. "How?"

"He's a professor at your fancy pants school."

"Loockersmans?"

"Das his square name. Round here we call him Mr. Look, cause he sees all."

"Really?" Now I started feeling slightly ridiculous for this poor soul. Obviously he was conned by a criminal into thinking he was more powerful than he really was.

"Yeah I don't know how he does it."

It could easily be explained that Look was easier for his thug cronies to say than Loockersmans.

"Maybe it's cause he's from anudder country."

I rolled my eyes at his pathetic comment. "Can I see him?"

"He just left. Had business elsewhere," he said.

I felt my shoulders slump. I wasn't sure if I was disappointed or relieved in not having to face him. "Will he be back tonight?"

"I dink he left the country. Took an aeroplane or something," he said.

"Impossible, I have class with him tomorrow," I said sternly.

He threw down his cards in a huff, "Hey, dollface, I only know what I hear outta da horse's mouth and now that you're up, I gotta go back to the door." He stood up leaving the cards strewn on the table which I found terribly irresponsible. "Let's go."

I followed him out into the kitchen past the ovens and into a slim dark stairwell. I heard the noises of people as we descended. He pushed open what seemed to be a wall and out we came into the speakeasy. I was still woozy from the drink and the combination of smoke and heat hit me once again. "I need to leave," I said to Rick.

"Then follow me," he said.

I looked over and saw Dottie shooting pool with Howie behind her counting a stack of bills.

Rick said, "Shame ya gonna miss Dottie beat the pants off those fellas."

I'm sure I'll hear all about," I said.

Rick was right. The class I was supposed to have yesterday with Professor Loockersmans was led by his assistant, a mousy young man by the name of Henry. Rest assured when he returns I will find him... during his office hours.

EDITOR'S NOTE: The past two entries have been dialogue heavy and what I have transcribed is exactly what is written on the pages of her journal. I have in no way altered the dialogue phonetically. Velma, fascinated by spoken and written language, tried her best to capture the vernacular of the Broadway speakeasy culture. For a period it almost became an obsession. Also, since Velma fancied herself more of writer than a diarist, some of her entries read almost like narrative. She assured me that her memory is phonographic and the dialogue was true almost to the word.

September 20, 1931

2007-11-05T00:03:00.001-05:00

As I’m sitting here in the library, I am desperately trying to piece together what happened the night before.

At 9:30 PM when I am usually tucked away in bed with a book, Dottie told me it was time to get ready. She ran down to the showers and washed herself. She flew back into the room in a terry robe and quickly threw on a slim black dress with white trim. Although Dottie has a pale complexion for someone of the Italian persuasion, I still think black washes her out. Of course she feels she can rectify this by over roughing her cheeks and painting her lips cherry red to match her finger nails.

I put on a simple blue dress and over it a trench coat. Of course Dottie had something to say about this. “What are you some shamus or something? You’re going out, not solving a crime.”

“I’m investigating.” Was my retort to her.

Her face grew stern. “Listen to me and listen good, I swear to the good Lord if you rat on this joint I’ll bust your nose in.” She made a fist to enforce her claim.

“Dottie, I’m only curious to see if my professor is there. I’m not out to ruin anyone’s fun."

She unclenched her fist. “As long as we’re clear. Just cause you’re whacky doesn’t mean the rest of us need to be.”

I kept the trench on since the evening was moist. We walked over to Broadway and traveled a few blocks south from campus. The restaurants and coffee shops were full of life, which amazed me. I would have been asleep for at least an hour on any other night, but here a whole other world went on right outside my door.

Dottie stopped in front of a dark bakery. She looked both ways. In the dark sliver of space between the bakery and the building next to it was a red metal door with high grate climbing above it. She tapped on the door lightly and whispered, “Sticky buns.” With that the door opened to a crack and we were permitted to enter. Behind the door was a slim dark-haired gentlemen who whispered, “Hiya Dottie.” He looked over me. “This a friend?”

“My roommate, Velma. Don’t mind the jacket. This is her first time out.”

He tipped his black hat, “Nice makin’ your acquaintance, Velma.”

I cracked a smile through my fear, “You as well.”

“Howie’s inside waitin’ for ya,” he said to Dottie.

“Thanks Rick. Come on, Velma.” She took me by the arm and led me through the alley. “That’s Rick. Sweet kid.”

“He seems it.” I was trying to mask my throbbing nerves but the shady alley lit by one light bulb and the secret passwords were not helping.

She stopped in front of a smaller green door and tapped again four times. The door opened cautiously and we entered. The man behind this door looked exactly like Rick at the first door. “Hey, Dottie.”

“Hiya Mick.” She looked at me. “They’re twins.”

“Oh,” I said. Mick and Rick sounded like the Vaudeville.

“This ya friend?” He asked.

“My roommate, Velma. Don’t mind the jacket. This is her first time out.”

“Nice to meet ya, Velma,” he said tipping his black hat.

“And you as well,” I said nodding my head.

Dottie rolled her eyes at me. “She’s from upstate so that’s why she’s all formal-like.”

Mick smiled, “A formal dame ain’t something I’m used to here…. Howie’s inside.”

“Got it. Thanks, Mick.” Dottie put her arm out and with her hand clutched the air and drew it to the side not only to reveal a room spotted with candles and hanging lanterns, but the noise of the seventy or so patrons drinking and conversing. The black velvet curtain blocked out all sound and light from escaping.

We stepped down a short staircase into the main room. “We call it the Bakery seeing as it’s behind a bakery.”

“Very clever,” I said; my heart racing. The smell of cheap liquor and the clouds of cigarette smoke made me immediately faint.

“The air’s not so great. You might want to lose the jacket.”

She was right I was beginning to sweat. “No I’m fine.”

“Suit yourself, honey.”

Out of thin air a man in a cheap blue suit came from behind Dottie, wrapped his arms around her waist and swung her off the ground. She yelped out with a smile, “HOWIE!”

I was frozen with fear.

He turned her around and kissed her on the lips. “Your sucha nut,” she said laughing.

“I know it, but I’m your nut, doll face.” His eyes were light with an angular creamy face and the distinct trace of freckles on his cheeks.

“Howie, this is Velma.”

“Nice to meet ya. Dottie says awful things about ya,” he starts laughing. I hoped he was joking.

She slapped him across the cheek playfully, “Howie’s an idiot who says the first thing that comes across his pea brain, but we keep him around for fun.”

“And Dottie’s the dame who can hustle any of these guys at pool,” he said proudly.

“And Velma’s the one who can speak eight languages. Now that we know each other’s talents, let’s get a drink,” Dottie heading toward the back of the establishment.

“Nice meeting you Howie,” I said. “But I can only speak three languages although I can understand five.”

“Alright, enough,” Dottie said as the three of us walked over to the long wooden bar. “What ya got tonight, Fox?”

Fox seemed to be the short older gentlemen with absolutely not a trace of hair on his head and a round pug face. His white apron was impressively spotless. He replied tersely, “Gin or whiskey.”

“What’s homemade?” Dottie asked.

Howie chimed in, “The gin and you can taste it.”

“Ok, three whiskies and put ‘em on the rocks in honor of our new friend, Velma.”

“Dottie, I’m not drinking,” I urgently reminded her.

The man called Fox poured the drinks into ice-filled glasses. “Yeah you are. It’s on me.”

“No, I’m not,” I insisted.

Dottie pushed Howie out of the way and put my arm into a vice grip. “Listen sister if you walk around in a joint like this in a jacket like that and you don’t drink, kids are gonna start thinking you’re the fuzz and it won’t be pretty for any of us—”

“Ladies, ladies,” Howie started seeing the fear in my eyes, I’m sure.

“—so drink the damn drink.” She let my arm go and smiled. “Besides, you might like it.”

“You're a beast,” Howie said to Dottie with wild excitement in his eyes.

“Remember that when some pretty dame walks in front of ya.”

“I will,” Howie said with a grin. Dottie picked up a glass and handed it to me. Then one to Howie and she took the last for herself. She raised her glass, “To breaking the law,” she took a large sip and placed the glass on the bar. Howie took a reasonable sip.

I looked at the full glass and just wanting to be done with the whole thing, I took a breath and drank the entirety of the amber liquid. In an instant the combination of heat, smoke, body stench, and poison hit me and all went black.

September 19, 1931

2007-10-30T20:14:00.000-04:00

Speaking Dutch is more of a challenge than I figured. Unlike English or French, the way Dutch words are spelt greatly affects their pronunciation. All their words altar their spellings significantly in order to make way for different endings. There is also the concept of vowel sounds being determined by closed and open syllables. For example "boom" which means tree drops an "o" and adds an "en" to form "bomen" and thus the plural, trees, is formed. It would be pronounced "bo-men" which is obviously much different from the original "boom." I believe this is why Dutch can sound like English, French, and German, all at once, in natural conversation.

Also on the matter of Dutch, I can't help but think of Professor Loockersmans as a proprietor of some vile speakeasy. Although his appearance is always clean and his stature is of the utmost intelligence, his demeanor seems rank with deception because he is so spare with his words.

Regardless, tonight will be the night I find out. Like some amateur gumshoe I am accompanying Dottie to her "spot." I do not intend to drink but to observe and if Professor Loockersmans is indeed heading the establishment I’m not sure what I’ll do. I don’t think I have the courage to confront him, nor will I have the respect to learn from a criminal. In which case, I will then drop Dutch and wait for German to return next semester.

September 15, 1931

2007-10-28T22:07:00.000-04:00

I had two involved papers to work on over the past few days and have regretted not writing. The first paper was for my modern poetry class concerning Whitman’s stance on the Civil War as reflected in his later verse. The second involved the socio-political climate in Western Europe after the Great War. The research is rewarding but the topics are not my favorites.

After the unfortunate incident with Dottie a few nights ago, I decided to confront her on the Loockersmans comment she made in her stupor. She explained that Loockersmans owned the establishment where she found the music swinging and the hooch cheap. I explained to her that Loockersmans was also the name of my Dutch professor.

“Yeah, so?” Was her response.

“Don’t you find it irresponsible to educate young minds and break the law at the same time?”

“Christ with you and this (I shall omit her harsh expletive) law. It’s only a matter of time before they change it. The man’s making scratch (which means money apparently) hand over fist. Then she said if I was so curious as to why he was running a speakeasy, I should go see him there myself. I hesitated at the idea but then I thought it might be to my advantage. Leverage, as Dottie calls it.

I have to admit, I do like Dottie. She may be a bit gruff but I feel her heart and mind are sharp. She said she was going home next weekend and would bring me back a tray of her mother’s eggplant Parmesan. A thoughtful gesture for sure. I’ve never tried eggplant or much Italian food for that matter and in times like these, it is rare that people share food.

September 10, 1931

2007-10-26T11:09:00.000-04:00

Dottie came in at 4:30 this morning and vomited clear across our small room. It, of course, brought me out of my pleasant sleep.

When I turned on my desk lamp I found her sitting on the floor, red-faced and sweating. She said she found this “swingin’ place” very close by. “The hooch is real cheap,” she said with a grin.

“I can smell that,” I said to her more annoyed than anything else.

“Ahhh lightin’ up, Velma,” she stumbled in her dense Brooklynese; a language all to itself, I assure you. “We’ve been here over a week and you haven’t gone out the once.”

“Drinking is illegal.” The conversation now took place over me cleaning the mess with some old towels from the laundry.

“Yeah, that’s why cops do it too,” she mumbled indignantly.

“Ridiculous!” I said.

“Velma, honey, how naive are you? No one believes in that bunk law.”

I do hate it when she calls me honey. It’s much too familiar.

“Don’t you want to practice law?” I said to her.

“Yeah and the first thing I’d do is fight to turn this stupid amendment over.” Then she fell forward on her face. She remained incoherent while I finished cleaning up. None of this was enjoyable, mind you, and I only did it because no one else would.

As I was putting her into bed, I heard her start to mumble nonsense. Then out of the clear blue she said, “Lookersmans.” She started laughing and saying things like, “Such a stupid name.” She laughed a little more then fell into a drunken sleep in which she snored louder than usual. Was it my Dutch professor? If so, how did she come in contact with him? She wasn’t taking the class. Actually, she poked fun at me for taking Dutch. I found the whole situation queer.

When I climbed back into bed, my mind was reeling with the possibilities. But as I fell asleep, I wasn’t sure what had really happened and what was my sleepy imagination.

On the Phone with Velma #1

2007-10-24T13:08:00.000-04:00

“What?” I hear Velma’s voice yell out before she even brings the receiver to her ear.

“Velma? Hello?”

“What?” She seems to be breathing heavily into the phone.

“The blog is up.” I say triumphantly. Like it took years of work.

“Is that supposed to mean something?” Sometimes I think she plays this ignorant old lady thing on purpose.

“It means the general public will be reading your journals.”

“Yeah well,” she labors. “I hope it works,” She struggles to gain her breath.

“What works? Are you okay?”

A guttural cough right into the phone, “Yeah I’m fine.”

“What’s with the breathing?”

“Oh, you caught me doing yoga.” You see what I mean about the old lady act. “I was doing kapalabhati.”

“That’s crazy stuff.”

“It’s the reason I’m still alive.”

I lob a little pause in there. “So, what works?”

“What are you talking about, sweetheart?”

“You just said I hope it works.”

“The journals! It’ll make ‘em realize what’s going on.”

I chuckle, “Yeah, well, I think it’s an entertaining read.”

“I know you do, but there’s more to it.” At this juncture the reader might take note that Velma thinks some of the more
fantastical elements of her journal are not fiction. I can say with confidence that, I think, they are. We humor her. “So do you
need more?”

“More what?”

“Entries!”

“Velma, I’ve only posted three.”

“THREE? Whatta ya waiting for?”

“Do you know how long it takes to read your handwriting? I have a day job.”

“Oh Christ, I’ll be dead by time you type out ’35.” It’s possible. “Work faster!”

Me changing the subject, “Look I called to see if there was anything you want to say about your journals? For the readership?”

“Yeah—” Suddenly I hear what sounds like a legion of cast iron skillets falling onto tile. “DAMMIT MIMI!” Then another crash
and the squishing sound of the receiver under Velma’s ear as she moves about. “Never keep a peacock indoors. They get into everything.”

Knowing what I know now about Velma Graydon this statement does not strike me as odd as it may you.

Mimi in the other room! NOW,” she yells. “You see it’s supposed to rain and I don’t want them outside.” There are two of them. “They get so ornery when they’re wet.”

“Ah huuuuh,” I draw that out because I have no idea what to say.

“So the early journals,” she refocuses. “Yeah, they’re awful.”

“What?”

“They’re so sophomoric. I was in love with my own brain. I thought I was the bees-knees for going to college. Now everyone goes to college.”

“That’s what you have to say about your journals?”

“Oh God, I cringe when I read them… Skip ahead. So much flower so little root. The later ones get to the point.”

“Velma, I’m not skipping.”

A deep sigh, “No? Well, then I’ll just die before you get out of the 30’s.”

“Okay. Anything else you want me to relate.”

“Sure, let them know I don’t shit diamonds like I thought I did seventy-five years ago.”

“Right, okay.”

“And don’t say shit when you quote me. I want your civilized readership to think I’m intelligent.”

“Got it.” Little does she know that I’ve been transcribing our conversations word-for-word. She’d be fine with it, I’m sure. No use in telling her right this minute.

“You know I didn’t say my first curse until I was forty.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, now I can’t stop.”

September 5, 1931

2007-10-22T00:11:00.000-04:00

I had my first Dutch class this morning. It was taught by this goliath of a man named Dr. Gerdi Loockermans who is obviously Dutch himself. He hails from the city of Utrecht and came to New York to study at Columbia. If I had to guess, I would say his is in his late forties. He is a quiet man with an extremely deep voice and I couldn’t help but feel that he was staring down each of his students throughout the session. It was as if he was trying to find something in us. His eyes are very large and dark; a rich brown. Perhaps he was trying to intimidate us with the staring or perhaps he can’t help it. I will admit it was unsettling to say the least.

He didn’t start speaking in Dutch right away. His English is impeccable with very little trace of his native accent. But when he began to introduce the language the tenor of his voice completely changed. The pronunciations are so alien to me. The vowel combinations will be hard to master and there are words you have to literally change the shape of tongue to say things correctly. I’ve heard that this is also the case with German so perhaps Dutch will be a good precursor to my German studies. It seems that the Dutch sentence structure is virtually the same as English so, just paging through the two slim volumes required for the course, it seems that it’s all a matter of vocabulary and declension.

My roommate Dottie Cento, who is also here on full scholarship and who has left her family in Brooklyn to live “up city” as she calls it seems to be very friendly, and quite a free spirit. We have been here barely three days and she’s gone out each night. She hasn’t said what she’s done but she does reek of liquor when she comes in. It doesn’t bother me, although I don’t fancy myself a drinker, I knew I would come in contact with it here at school. Even though it is illegal, I’ve heard the stories of the countless speakeasies here in the city. Sometimes I wonder if I’d have the courage to go to one.

September 4, 1931

2007-10-18T22:43:00.000-04:00

With the amount of work that seems to be ahead of me, I will not be able to write in my diary every day as I would have liked. Yesterday was so crammed with little tasks like finding my classes and purchasing books. Then, of course there were the little social gatherings amongst the girls on my floor here in Hewitt Hall. With all that I scarcely had the time to remember my name. I will have at least one class everyday of the week. It would appear that my Wednesday schedule is the lightest, so I will take that time to roam the city and find my way around my new home. For the past two days I’ve seen nothing but the campus of Barnard and yesterday evening I was able to stroll through Columbia’s neighboring campus. It makes me anxious to think of the entire island of Manhattan that I am still yet to see. All in due time I keep telling myself.

I found that the German class I was hoping to sink my teeth into has been postponed till next semester seeing as the professor broke his leg in two places and has gone on medical leave. Needless to say I was extremely disappointed especially considering that they have placed me in a Dutch class as a remedy. I honestly have no interest in Dutch, but I was told it will be good practice for German next semester. I’m not even sure how Dutch functions as a language. My guess is that it’s an amalgam of English, German, and perhaps French thrown together in deep guttural sounds. I assume I’ll find out since the class is tomorrow.

I was able to telephone home and tell mom and dad that I had made it to New York. I assured them that my arrival occurred without incident. I arrived at Pennsylvania Station around 1:30. The marvel of the place really was a grand indication of the city I have chosen to school myself in. The glass ceilings in the depot alone were a miracle of human engineering. Then walking into that waiting room my jaw dropped. What a breathtaking structure! It looked like a magnificent church or a Roman bath (which I believe it was modeled after). In all honesty I had never seen a structure that large before, inside or out and it pleases me that it is the first thing I saw on my entrance. It is truly a divine gateway on which to enter this city.

After stepping off the train, I went out and found the nearest cab. It was a Checker Cab driven by a very polite Italian man. I so wished I had taken Italian so I could converse with him. Although I’m sure Spanish would’ve sufficed in a pinch, of course I didn’t want to insult him saying so. I told him the address in English and he brought me up to the campus taking Broadway all the way from 34th street. What a magnificent street, Broadway. It winds through the grid defiantly, as if it doesn’t care that it’s breaking all the rules, almost like a river cutting through the other streets.

Barnard’s campus is small, but since it is considered to be the sister school of Columbia, I also consider that to be my campus as well. It is quieter than I expected up here. The campuses have great trees dotting them, and the other students walk hurriedly around, not stopping to talk to one another. I did imagine a bit more noise and crowding. Perhaps I’ll need to go downtown for that.

I would think to write all this in a letter to my parents, but the mood doesn’t strike me. Besides, I promised to call once a week and they can hear it all then. Letters from my own hand bore me. I’d much rather read someone else’s written in a different language.

September 2, 1931

2007-10-17T21:27:00.000-04:00

“There is a magic in the world and all you need do is open your eyes to it.” That’s what my third grade teacher, Mrs. Ham used to say every Monday morning before she called roll. Now that I’m older, I realize that everyone needs to recognize the possibility of something magical on something as awful as a Monday morning. Thinking back on it, Mrs. Ham probably did it to remind herself of the world’s enchantment as she stood bleary-eyed in front of the responsibility of twenty-six children. But as I climbed out of bed on this morning, some years after the days of Mrs. Ham, I saw a world full of magic. The late August morning I found outside my window had a fine mist covering it. The field outside that I have looked on for all eighteen years of my memory was a bright green, wet with the dew of late summer. Dad’s horses trotted by for the first run of the morning. Their nostrils expelled the vapor and the hooves kicked up the moisture. Mom’s coffee called from the kitchen downstairs and all was as it always had been.

My life has always been in Saratoga on my father’s ranch. The routines have been unbroken from grammar to high school where I unlocked the academic mysteries of my own small world. I spent my time working carefully on words until their meanings were revealed and their relationships established. Words are my greatest friend and constant companion. I want to make them my life’s work. My teachers have told me again and again that I have a gift for language seeing as I mastered French and Spanish before I was in high school. While in high school I conquered Greek, Latin, and I am now trying to master German. With recent events in world history, German may work to be useful. It seems that Americans are wary of anything associated with Germany, but I feel a need to understand them may arise.

It is also my ability to master languages that has given me the opportunity to start a new page in my life. This morning as I write in this diary, I am sitting in a nearly empty passenger car bound for New York City. Tomorrow morning I will begin my first class at Barnard University where I have received a full scholarship to study linguistics. I am the first person in the Graydon family to receive a college education. I’ve watched many of my friends leave school to marry or work for their families in these difficult times. I tried to convince them that leaving school would not help; their educations would lead them to prosperity. My own parents told me there would be no higher education because they couldn’t afford it. The tracks have suffered because of the Depression. My father has not seen as much business as in past years. He had to let most of his stable hands go, leaving most of the work to him and my brother Henry. My mother has taken to working up at the spas waiting on the rich women who come in for the baths. Yet even those patrons have become few and far between since those who had fortunes have lost them. My only comfort is that I will be one less charge for my family being out of the house and on my own.

When I came down the old wooden stairs this morning I had three green trunks packed with my most important possessions. One was clothing and two were books that I simply couldn’t part with. Mom was annoyed that I didn’t wait for Henry to help me with them. She told me a lady has no need for so many books or such heavy trunks. She’s so old-fashioned and has never been able to understand my independence. In her eyes I should be staying in Saratoga searching desperately for a husband to sweep me off my feet and knock some sense into me. But father believes in my education and encourages it. When I received word of my scholarship from Barnard, he was the first to say that I needed to go and then eventually insisted, much to my mother’s protest. Deep inside of my mother, I feel it’s the regret of her own choices which raised her objections. She left school after the fifth grade to help on her family’s orchard, and at the age of seventeen met my father and was quickly married. Her life has been her husband and children. Mine will be words.

Just an hour ago, as I stood on the platform, looking on my home town and seeing my family sending me off, I couldn’t help but think that I never belonged there. That was never my life. For eighteen years I was only marking time for this moment; to leave for a much bigger world. Of course, I will miss my family and look forward to returning for holidays, but my life will now be in the city. This diary will be a record of the events that soon mark that life. On this very morning as I ride through these green valleys, I am speeding toward the wonder of New York City.

Introduction by JR

2007-10-15T10:06:00.000-04:00

Doing research at the Museum of the Native American down on Bowling Green, I came across the strangest old woman. I was alone(Courtney was off making photocopies of Lenape longhouse sketches) and looking for a book on the the Lenape language. Said old woman was sitting at one of the round reference tables poring over a Lenape linguistics guide. It was likely the only one written and that, most likely, the only copy in print. I couldn't help but notice how furiously she was writing in her black leather-bound notebook. I also couldn't help but be amazed by the look of her. She had pure white hair in a perfect bob and thick round-framed black glasses. For a second I thought Lee Krasner was before me taking an interest in the impossibility of the Lenape language.

Without even looking up she said, "Can't take your eyes off me, huh?" Her voice was gravelly but not so deep that it would frighten. There was just enough season to know she was a life-long New Yorker.

"No, I actually need that book," I said smiling. Works with all the old ladies.

"You do?" Genuine surprise. "What the hell for?" She liked me already. I could tell.

Many have asked that question, "I'm working on a graphic novel."

"And it's in Lenape?"

"Parts of it," I said sheepishly. I usually lose people at that point in the conversation, but her face turned rosy and warm.

"What's it about?"

I expel a regretful sigh, "The history of New York City."

She lights up further. Her posture even improved, "What's the story?"

I was confused. I thought that was pretty self-explanatory. "Umm, well, the Dutch settle New Amsterdam after Henry Hudson discovers the island of..." I lost her.

"You mean it's straight history?"

"Ah, sure," I say without confidence.

She grimaces, like only a New Yorker can, then quickly motions for me to come closer. Naturally I had been keeping my distance. Anyone who's interested in Lenape shouldn't be trusted.

I move slowly toward her. I figured she was going to hit me with the book for my apparent audacity. "Do you wanna hear a real story?"

I'm not sure I had a choice, "Sure?"

Two and half hours later (Courtney had gone to have lunch without me) she's talking about Coney Island in 1942 and a giant sperm whale out to take revenge for her dead calf (put on display outside of Nathan's). From the content of what I heard before, I was pretty sure this lady was a loon.

"What? You don't believe me about the whale?"

It wasn't only the whale. I was dumbfounded by the time I had invested in this woman. "Well I-"

"Check it out. Makes for a better story than straight-up history." And she continued on for forty-five minutes filling in the decades after, which were even stranger than the centuries prior.

"Then the story's not over?" I ask cautiously.

"No, but I bet it'll be one helluva finish," she says with a grin.

"I'm sure."

She knew I was humoring her. "You should read my journals if you don't believe me. I'll tell you what. You wanna good graphic's novel..."

"Graphic."

"...read the journals. Come back next week and meet me in Bowling Green. I'll give you all of 'em."

"I don't think that's nece-"

"Come on! Whatta ya gotta lose? Besides, they start in '31. Real slice-a-history." She did have a point. I was a sucker for history. "What the hell is a graphic's novel anyway?"

That was almost two years ago. Last May I met her again to return all 19 volumes of her journals. What she recorded from 1931 to present is at once fascinating, thrilling, and frightening. When I saw her I said, "You should publish these."

"Nah. You use them."

"I think I might."

"Really?" Her 90 year-old face smiled back the wrinkles.

"It's fascinating stuff.

"Isn't it though."

"But it's your property-"

"No, no. I'll be gone soon and this crazy story is gonna end. I need your youth to get it out there," she smiled and lightly smacked me on the cheek.

"Courtney and I have decided to use some of this in the graphic novel. If that's ok with you?" I asked. "Also, I hope you don't mind, but I photocopied the journals for research purposes."

"Wonderful. And the resolution is coming. You just need to stay tuned sweetheart," said like a real old-salt New Yorker. Crazy as sin and full of heart. "So why me?" I asked.

"You had a nice smile." With that, Velma Graydon, a spry 90 years young walked off. This blog contains her journal entries transcribed. Her handwriting is impossible to read and it takes a day or two to translate each entry, so I'm typing them one at a time. When I last spoke to her she said she was pleased that more people would be able to read them, but had no clue how to access a "glob" to see if I was doing them justice.

I told her I was doing my best.