#Northwest territory front porch tent

[sass-and-crass]

I was informed by the coordinator that the clarinetist and the trumpeter were heading straight to Brooklyn after the show, and the trombonist found a friend she could stay with, but would I mind hosting the bassist instead? His arrangement fell through, she said. No, not at all. I'm not one to discriminate against any particular instruments. Especially not the bass. 

I immediately thought about Dave, the tall, lanky bassist who kissed me during senior week. He promised to call me up after his planned post-graduation soul-searching trip. Take me on a proper date and tell me about your journey, I said. I owe you more than just a kiss on our proper date, he said. Alas, he never called. A rotting 300-year old spruce tree fell on him while he was hiking in the Pacific Northwest. Tragic. I will never know what notes he would've coaxed out of me with his deft fingers. 

Admittedly, I wasn't paying much attention to any of the musicians during the dance. I was busy minding my steps (and skirt) as I was thrown about, slung from one hip to another by my partner. We also left the dance early to meet our friends for dinner. It didn't occur to me that I ought to have inquired about the bassist's name or exactly what he looked like. I told my boyfriend that a bassist (and presumably, his instrument) were going to come by our house later in the evening.

My dog barked his head off when the bassist arrived at our front porch slightly after midnight. I let my boyfriend go downstairs to let him in. I imagined the bassist standing outside our door with his bass in tow, his driving cap (another addition in my imagination) cast a dark shadow over his face, unfazed by the barking 80-lbs dog behind the door. 

I didn't really bother to join my boyfriend to welcome him in. Although I overheard them talking for a few minutes before my boyfriend announced, "There's the guest room and the guest bathroom. Make yourself at home." 

"What's he like?" I asked my boyfriend when he slid back under the cover. He shrugged and turned his back towards me. "Okay, I guess? Slightly tipsy." His droning monosyllabic answer told me he'd rather go back to bed than gossip about our guest. 

Except that, I couldn't go back to bed. I hadn't gotten all the blues out of my system and would have loved to dance another two or three sets. But my boyfriend was fast asleep, no doubt dreaming of those girls he'd danced with. I was quite sure one of the girls had left a moist stain on his jeans as she pressed her crotch against his upper thigh. And I wouldn't be surprised if she could feel his erection when he turned her around, pulled her close, and guided her hips as they swayed to the rhythm. 

So I went downstairs, tiptoed past the guest room into the kitchen in my t-shirt and panties. Bra-less; my nipples turned the sheer t-shirt I was wearing into a see-through, twin-peaked tent. I fumbled around trying to find the step stool in the pantry. My boyfriend had always found it funny to keep the whiskeys on the top cabinet, out of my reach. "One, it keeps you from being an alcoholic. Two, a constant reminder that you need a boyfriend. A tall one." 

"Is everything okay?" the bassist asked as he walked into the kitchen, his eyes widening as he saw me. Surely he didn't expect to see his hostess half-naked, on her tippie-toes in the kitchen; clutching on three bottles of bourbon.

"Shit," he turned around, "I'm so sorry... I'll ... um.. I'll go back into the room. Just.. um.. let me know if you need help fetching stuff." 

"Oh, no you're fine." I said coolly. "Don't worry about... This ," I pointed to my bottomless half, though he wasn't facing me. "Sorry I woke you up. I'm just way too wired tonight and need something to take the edge off."

He slowly turned around to face me but polite enough to keep his gaze on my face. 

"I couldn't sleep either," he softly admitted.

"Here," I handed him one of the whiskey bottles, "you need a stiff one after all the trauma I must've put you through. Scaring you in the middle of the night, half naked and all."

He laughed. "No trauma inflicted," he said. "It's not like you're fat and gross."

I smiled. 

"In fact," he continued, "you're...." 

I could tell he was thinking through all the permutations of things he could, couldn't, should, and shouldn't say. I'm sure there's a book of etiquette for the traveling musician that strictly forbid against fornicating with your host's wife, girlfriend, and/or daughters (and/or cattle, in some communities). "Yes?" 

"Uh, I was going to say that I think you're an attractive lady. I saw you earlier tonight. Never saw anyone having that much fun on the dance floor," he blurted out. He looked around nervously, expecting my boyfriend to emerge from around the corner with a baseball bat. 

"Ha." I chuckled. "At least pour me one first before you start making fun of me," I said.

I carried the two bottles of bourbon, one in each arm, towards the guest room and motioned him to open the door. He hesitated.

"Urm... you want us to go into the room?" he asked, incredulously. He looked like he's calculating the odds of tonight being the best or worst night of his life. The latter involved him getting shot with a revolver in the head, dumped over a bridge in the middle of nowhere, Connecticut.

"Relax," I said, "he's sound asleep. Besides, he won't mind."

His eyes widened.

"We do this all the time" I continued while mentally replaying what I just said. This? What is this? Hosting strangers with the hopes of fucking them? That's just creepy. 

"Listen," I started. "I hope I'm not making you feel uncomfortable. I didn't mean it that way. All I meant was that we're somewhat of a nudist. He wouldn't bat an eyelid if he sees us having a drink in your room." I improvised along as words came out of my mouth. What do I want anyway? Fuck this guy? While my boyfriend is asleep upstairs? With a very real risk of him waking up to the sound of us fornicating. Now, that would be a new territory...

[doanharper]

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[mesenhoritagrier-blog]

Northwest Territory Front Porch Tent 18’ x 12’: Outdoor Gear from... ❤ liked on Polyvore

[readbookywooks]

In which Passepartout undergoes, at a speed of twenty miles an hour, a course of mormon history

During the night of the 5th of December, the train ran south-easterly for about fifty miles; then rose an equal distance in a north-easterly direction, towards the Great Salt Lake.

Passepartout, about nine o'clock, went out upon the platform to take the air. The weather was cold, the heavens grey, but it was not snowing. The sun's disc, enlarged by the mist, seemed an enormous ring of gold, and Passepartout was amusing himself by calculating its value in pounds sterling, when he was diverted from this interesting study by a strange-looking personage who made his appearance on the platform.

This personage, who had taken the train at Elko, was tall and dark, with black moustache, black stockings, a black silk hat, a black waistcoat, black trousers, a white cravat, and dogskin gloves. He might have been taken for a clergyman. He went from one end of the train to the other, and affixed to the door of each car a notice written in manuscript.

Passepartout approached and read one of these notices, which stated that Elder William Hitch, Mormon missionary, taking advantage of his presence on train No. 48, would deliver a lecture on Mormonism in car No. 117, from eleven to twelve o'clock; and that he invited all who were desirous of being instructed concerning the mysteries of the religion of the "Latter Day Saints" to attend.

"I'll go," said Passepartout to himself. He knew nothing of Mormonism except the custom of polygamy, which is its foundation.

The news quickly spread through the train, which contained about one hundred passengers, thirty of whom, at most, attracted by the notice, ensconced themselves in car No. 117. Passepartout took one of the front seats. Neither Mr. Fogg nor Fix cared to attend.

At the appointed hour Elder William Hitch rose, and, in an irritated voice, as if he had already been contradicted, said, "I tell you that Joe Smith is a martyr, that his brother Hiram is a martyr, and that the persecutions of the United States Government against the prophets will also make a martyr of Brigham Young. Who dares to say the contrary?"

No one ventured to gainsay the missionary, whose excited tone contrasted curiously with his naturally calm visage. No doubt his anger arose from the hardships to which the Mormons were actually subjected. The government had just succeeded, with some difficulty, in reducing these independent fanatics to its rule. It had made itself master of Utah, and subjected that territory to the laws of the Union, after imprisoning Brigham Young on a charge of rebellion and polygamy. The disciples of the prophet had since redoubled their efforts, and resisted, by words at least, the authority of Congress. Elder Hitch, as is seen, was trying to make proselytes on the very railway trains.

Then, emphasising his words with his loud voice and frequent gestures, he related the history of the Mormons from Biblical times: how that, in Israel, a Mormon prophet of the tribe of Joseph published the annals of the new religion, and bequeathed them to his son Mormon; how, many centuries later, a translation of this precious book, which was written in Egyptian, was made by Joseph Smith, junior, a Vermont farmer, who revealed himself as a mystical prophet in 1825; and how, in short, the celestial messenger appeared to him in an illuminated forest, and gave him the annals of the Lord.

Several of the audience, not being much interested in the missionary's narrative, here left the car; but Elder Hitch, continuing his lecture, related how Smith, junior, with his father, two brothers, and a few disciples, founded the church of the "Latter Day Saints," which, adopted not only in America, but in England, Norway and Sweden, and Germany, counts many artisans, as well as men engaged in the liberal professions, among its members; how a colony was established in Ohio, a temple erected there at a cost of two hundred thousand dollars, and a town built at Kirkland; how Smith became an enterprising banker, and received from a simple mummy showman a papyrus scroll written by Abraham and several famous Egyptians.

The Elder's story became somewhat wearisome, and his audience grew gradually less, until it was reduced to twenty passengers. But this did not disconcert the enthusiast, who proceeded with the story of Joseph Smith's bankruptcy in 1837, and how his ruined creditors gave him a coat of tar and feathers; his reappearance some years afterwards, more honourable and honoured than ever, at Independence, Missouri, the chief of a flourishing colony of three thousand disciples, and his pursuit thence by outraged Gentiles, and retirement into the Far West.

Ten hearers only were now left, among them honest Passepartout, who was listening with all his ears. Thus he learned that, after long persecutions, Smith reappeared in Illinois, and in 1839 founded a community at Nauvoo, on the Mississippi, numbering twenty-five thousand souls, of which he became mayor, chief justice, and general-in-chief; that he announced himself, in 1843, as a candidate for the Presidency of the United States; and that finally, being drawn into ambuscade at Carthage, he was thrown into prison, and assassinated by a band of men disguised in masks.

Passepartout was now the only person left in the car, and the Elder, looking him full in the face, reminded him that, two years after the assassination of Joseph Smith, the inspired prophet, Brigham Young, his successor, left Nauvoo for the banks of the Great Salt Lake, where, in the midst of that fertile region, directly on the route of the emigrants who crossed Utah on their way to California, the new colony, thanks to the polygamy practised by the Mormons, had flourished beyond expectations.

"And this," added Elder William Hitch, "this is why the jealousy of Congress has been aroused against us! Why have the soldiers of the Union invaded the soil of Utah? Why has Brigham Young, our chief, been imprisoned, in contempt of all justice? Shall we yield to force? Never! Driven from Vermont, driven from Illinois, driven from Ohio, driven from Missouri, driven from Utah, we shall yet find some independent territory on which to plant our tents. And you, my brother," continued the Elder, fixing his angry eyes upon his single auditor, "will you not plant yours there, too, under the shadow of our flag?"

"No!" replied Passepartout courageously, in his turn retiring from the car, and leaving the Elder to preach to vacancy.

During the lecture the train had been making good progress, and towards half-past twelve it reached the northwest border of the Great Salt Lake. Thence the passengers could observe the vast extent of this interior sea, which is also called the Dead Sea, and into which flows an American Jordan. It is a picturesque expanse, framed in lofty crags in large strata, encrusted with white salt-- a superb sheet of water, which was formerly of larger extent than now, its shores having encroached with the lapse of time, and thus at once reduced its breadth and increased its depth.

The Salt Lake, seventy miles long and thirty-five wide, is situated three miles eight hundred feet above the sea. Quite different from Lake Asphaltite, whose depression is twelve hundred feet below the sea, it contains considerable salt, and one quarter of the weight of its water is solid matter, its specific weight being 1,170, and, after being distilled, 1,000. Fishes are, of course, unable to live in it, and those which descend through the Jordan, the Weber, and other streams soon perish.

The country around the lake was well cultivated, for the Mormons are mostly farmers; while ranches and pens for domesticated animals, fields of wheat, corn, and other cereals, luxuriant prairies, hedges of wild rose, clumps of acacias and milk-wort, would have been seen six months later. Now the ground was covered with a thin powdering of snow.

The train reached Ogden at two o'clock, where it rested for six hours, Mr. Fogg and his party had time to pay a visit to Salt Lake City, connected with Ogden by a branch road; and they spent two hours in this strikingly American town, built on the pattern of other cities of the Union, like a checker-board, "with the sombre sadness of right-angles," as Victor Hugo expresses it. The founder of the City of the Saints could not escape from the taste for symmetry which distinguishes the Anglo-Saxons. In this strange country, where the people are certainly not up to the level of their institutions, everything is done "squarely"--cities, houses, and follies.

The travellers, then, were promenading, at three o'clock, about the streets of the town built between the banks of the Jordan and the spurs of the Wahsatch Range. They saw few or no churches, but the prophet's mansion, the court-house, and the arsenal, blue-brick houses with verandas and porches, surrounded by gardens bordered with acacias, palms, and locusts. A clay and pebble wall, built in 1853, surrounded the town; and in the principal street were the market and several hotels adorned with pavilions. The place did not seem thickly populated. The streets were almost deserted, except in the vicinity of the temple, which they only reached after having traversed several quarters surrounded by palisades. There were many women, which was easily accounted for by the "peculiar institution" of the Mormons; but it must not be supposed that all the Mormons are polygamists. They are free to marry or not, as they please; but it is worth noting that it is mainly the female citizens of Utah who are anxious to marry, as, according to the Mormon religion, maiden ladies are not admitted to the possession of its highest joys. These poor creatures seemed to be neither well off nor happy. Some--the more well-to-do, no doubt-- wore short, open, black silk dresses, under a hood or modest shawl; others were habited in Indian fashion.

Passepartout could not behold without a certain fright these women, charged, in groups, with conferring happiness on a single Mormon. His common sense pitied, above all, the husband. It seemed to him a terrible thing to have to guide so many wives at once across the vicissitudes of life, and to conduct them, as it were, in a body to the Mormon paradise with the prospect of seeing them in the company of the glorious Smith, who doubtless was the chief ornament of that delightful place, to all eternity. He felt decidedly repelled from such a vocation, and he imagined--perhaps he was mistaken-- that the fair ones of Salt Lake City cast rather alarming glances on his person. Happily, his stay there was but brief. At four the party found themselves again at the station, took their places in the train, and the whistle sounded for starting. Just at the moment, however, that the locomotive wheels began to move, cries of "Stop! stop!" were heard.

Trains, like time and tide, stop for no one. The gentleman who uttered the cries was evidently a belated Mormon. He was breathless with running. Happily for him, the station had neither gates nor barriers. He rushed along the track, jumped on the rear platform of the train, and fell, exhausted, into one of the seats.

Passepartout, who had been anxiously watching this amateur gymnast, approached him with lively interest, and learned that he had taken flight after an unpleasant domestic scene.

When the Mormon had recovered his breath, Passepartout ventured to ask him politely how many wives he had; for, from the manner in which he had decamped, it might be thought that he had twenty at least.

"One, sir," replied the Mormon, raising his arms heavenward --"one, and that was enough!"

[happiercamping]