… says George Herbert, and how can UD doubt it when the two women she happens to have hung out with at Ledge House in Harpers Ferry turned out to be an attorney for Transparency International and the manager of a crematorium? Two random individuals at my B&B, one tracking our sin, the other reducing us to dust…
The trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed. For this corruptible must put on incorruption and this mortal must put on immortality.
For Herbert, there was that third step. When your sinful life ended, you were returned to dust, but THEN (trumpet flourish)!
“It takes a normal body an hour or two to burn,” mused the manager as we gazed at this view; “but a really really obese person can take up to five.”
Worked. Like a charm. The 6:03 from Union Station stopped and took me from Garrett Park to Harpers Ferry, just as it said it would.
The tricky part was finding Ledge House. UD, on foot and alone, with night approaching, and in a mountain town where most streets are steep inclines, made every mistake possible and then some. She chatted with half the town in her effort to find the place.
Everyone – including the man who took me to a steep crumbly poison ivy ridden path he swore would get me there (I didn’t take the path) – was very friendly. And of course GPS was trying to help me too. Every wrong route I tried opened up onto gobsmacking views of rushing rivers, bridges, rock cliffs, green hills, and clear evening skies with an almost full moon.
Eventually, her ancient heart pounding, UD got to Henry Clay Street, where the GPS lady assured her she had reached her destination.
The house – way the hell up some cruddy steps – looked wrong. UD had no choice but to trudge the cruddy steps.
While resting halfway, she checked her email, which included congratulations from Amy at Bonhams – at yesterday’s New York auction, our latest Fangor sold for over a hundred thousand dollars.
Naturally this news gave me a second wind and I finished the course like a Marine recruit.
Where was I? This was a private house, with a big For Sale sign in front of it. GPS had stopped me too soon and sent me up the wrong street. Now – eyeing the cemetery that was the only other game in town – I had to go all the way back down to Henry Clay.
Where, glowing with charm and a Southern garden in dusky shadows, stood Ledge House.