SADDLEBAGS, Trunks, and Tombs

Chapter 1

How had I not known?  I’ve always thought very highly of my mental abilities and yet had I known, would I have stopped it from happening?  Would I have run out of my apartment as a madman and disappeared into the night?  It is said that hindsight is 20/20 but it’s too late now.

Even though I did introduce myself properly, I have since decided that ‘The Watcher’ is the most appropriate name I could introduce myself as.  As this year has passed, even to the last chapter, I have done just that, watched.  I never interacted, I never spoke, though I swore, that once, the old man looked dead at me.  I watched and I wrote, so for now, as far as this writing is concerned, I have given up the name of my birth.  If you forget who I am, just remember what I do.  Watch.

I live a simple life and have enjoyed it.  As you know, I live in a small apartment, I could have afforded more, but why?  I’m rambling again, huh?  I have a tendency.  Anyway, this is all I have known since the day that I took the reins and became the decision maker for my life.  Well at least that’s what I thought anyway. 

There are numerous windows in my hovel, but in the main room there is one large picture window that stretches from floor to ceiling and actually has the nerve to be framed in beautifully etched cherry wood.  I never got around to hanging any more decorative items in the main room as the window itself became a living piece of art, each day changing with the seasons and the whims of others who, unbeknownst to them, became my art.  This very window is what pulled me and has kept me here for the past fifteen years.  If I have my way, here is where I will take my last breath, sitting on my overstuffed couch, gazing out of the window that enchants me with every glance.

Contrary to popular belief, it doesn’t always rain in Oregon, but that is the lie that keeps the “sunny” Californians away.  Oregon is the most beautiful place in the world, especially in the Portland area that is part of a temperate rain forest.  In the spring and fall, you can truly see colors as the Creator meant for them to be seen. 

It was early spring when I looked at this place and after what should have been a quick glance out of the window, I was moving the few items I owned into the apartment.  Into the bedroom went my super single bed with an olive green bedspread, you know, the kind that hung to the floor, and a small chest of drawers.  I had a small three legged table to eat on and a desk for the typewriter, which has since upgraded to a laptop computer.  

The final piece of furniture was a deep forest green corduroy couch that I sat smack in the middle of the living room directly in front of the picture window.  It may seem funny, but over the years I have never purchased a television though I did purchase newer furniture.  The view from the picture window was always new and always enough.  If I knew then what I know now, I would have thought twice about getting a television and for that matter a DVD player, Tivo and a VCR.

I own a yellow 1967 Chevy Chevette which has rarely left the garage, rain or shine, since the day I first parked it there.  Everything I want and need is in walking distance.  There is a Starbucks a couple of blocks up 13th street with a florist on the left side the street.  I have faithfully made that trip every morning since they first opened their doors ten years ago.  There is a New Seasons market about half a mile the other direction.  I get all of my organic snacks and the few groceries I do buy from there.  

As time has gone by, numerous gourmet restaurants and cafes have popped up, one of my favorite being Elenis Philoxenia, a Greek spot with exquisite food, culture and service.  Most of the houses built in Sellwood were built around the 1920’s, and even though we are four miles from downtown Portland, the area has not lost its old time charm, perfect for those who don’t like change.  

The smell of the fresh bread and rain, as I make my way wherever my feet are taking me that day invigorate and excite my mind.  The smell of the Kona blend coffee in the large, light brown cup, prepares me for my day’s work.  The mildly musty smell of the antique shop that I live above and occasionally walk through, filled with items from other places and times, imbeds stories into my mind.

As I am surrounded by antique shops, my street being referred to as “Antique Row”, and it would be safe for you to assume that I have a fondness for old items and have, on occasion, picked up an item or two for my apartment.  

Mr. and Mrs. Lauftenburg, the owners of the antique store below my home and my landlords, will sometimes hold a new item that they think may hold my interest.  On the morning that my life was to begin its downward descent into unwelcome turmoil, I happened to be making my way through their shop to see if there was anything new, (old but new), that might catch my eye.  ’Once Upon a Time’, the Lauftenburg’s store, was in my opinion, one of the finer antique stores on the row.  It was almost uncanny the pieces they would find.  Though I did buy from other stores, most of my money was spent here.

The Lauftenburg’s were a charming, old couple, eccentric as all get out, (I’ve got my nerve huh?), but it worked for them and it worked for me.  This particular morning, seemingly awakened by the smell of my coffee, Mr. Lauftenburg grinned wide and motioned me towards the counter.  I’ll tell you what, if it was the coffee that had him grinning like that, he better make quick plans to go get his own, and I mean quick!  

I could barely get my morning greeting out before my eyes fell upon the small mahogany box sitting on the counter in front of the grinning old man.  Even as I closed the distance between us, I could see the intricate carvings, filled with the dust of what appeared to be an age gone by.  When I reached the counter and got a closer look, I could see the herd of horses carved into the cover.  Mr. Lauftenburg smiled and nodded his head, indicating that I should pick it up and take a look.  I set my coffee on the counter, now not caring if he picked it up and took a gulp or two!  

Even with the dirt in the grooves you could feel the richness of it.  Oh what a story that played across my fingers, sliding its way to the recesses of my mind!  Then again, maybe not, but the piece begged to be mine just as the older man had known it would. We talked for a while about the box while I wrote out my rent check.  After the necessary haggling, Lord knows I hate to haggle, I pulled a nice amount of cash out of my pocket, said my goodbyes and walked the long flight of stairs leading to my apartment.  

I put my coffee on the kitchen counter, which thankfully Mr. Lauftenburg had not decided to share, sat down on the edge of the couch and looked more closely at my new found treasure.  After what seemed like a long time, I decided to take a look inside the box, after that I told myself I would get to the business of cleaning it.  While we had been talking, Mr. Lauftenburg had mentioned to me that he and his wife had attended an auction in New Mexico this past weekend.  

The box had been among some other items that were found at the site of an old post office, evidently not having made their destinations.  As the story goes, as told by the auctioneer, there had been a big shoot out, as was still common in the day, concerning a large amount of money on the postal stage coach.  Consequently the rest of the mail that day had been either scattered or destroyed.  Supposedly the box in question was one of the scattered items.  

I thought about the story as I prepared to take top off of the box and take a look inside.  I didn’t truly think the box would hold anything but old air, but the box turned out to hold something that was quite dear, or should have been, to someone.  After my initial surprise I carefully removed a yellowed letter with what seemed to be scorched edges and what appeared to be a very old birth certificate, well half of a birth certificate.  

The only words I could make out on the front of the envelope were: “Mr., Winches, King, Arizona.  Well it looked as if Mr. “Winches” hadn’t received his mail.  Poor him, lucky me.  With the letter still in my hand, I went to the kitchen and retrieved my coffee.  After setting the cup on the coffee table, somewhat away from the box, I sunk down into the couch and began to open the letter.