Howard’s End

The other day Victoria Rose asked me to go to the text book hearings in a land far away. She was going to pick up textbook samples to consider for adoption in the classes she teaches. She didn’t want to go by herself, so I decided to ride along and keep her company. Besides, if I got lucky, the chance might arise for me to snag a Latin book. How could I pass up such an opportunity?

I packed a bag full of books and writing materials in the event I got stuck sitting outside a lecture hall like Mary’s unfortunate little lamb, while Victoria Rose listened to endless presentations and sales spiels. Turns out, I didn’t need them. When we arrived, the various vendors and other educators took me for one of their own. For indeed, who would attend such a thing if they weren’t required?

I accompanied her to the first presentation, which wasn’t so bad, and wasn’t very long. At the end of it the nice lady who gave the presentation bade us all to take a copy of the text and smiled warmly. Dare I? Well, if you insist…

We then trotted off to another razzle-dazzle, slam-bang, tome-fest. These folks were even friendlier and more giving than the first lady was. They fed us. We showed up just in time for the mopping up stages of their presentation. Victoria Rose got her complimentary copy of the text. I asked if I might have a copy of the book too. They all grinned widely. "Sure!" they said. Not only did we each get a lovely copy of a fine art textbook; they threw in some nifty canvas tote bags to schlep them away in. Spiffy!

The next lady was not so nice. She informed us in a haughty tone that they didn’t bother to bring samples of their books, since they were the only one who published a text on the subject. She commanded us to go home and adopt her book at once. Hah! We showed her. We skipped her presentation all together.

We only had a couple more vendors to check out and it was getting to be lunch time, so we decided to see if any of them would part with their samples without making us stick around for the song and dance. It was back to the folks with the muffins and book bags. Victoria Rose was inquiring about some book or another, but I had a mission of my own.

I spotted the Latin books. I had wanted to learn Latin ever since the summer I spent at the Happy Valley Skull Ranch. When I left, that nice Dr. Caligari gave me a certificate in Latin. I graduated Non Compus Mentis. I always wondered what that meant. I approached the lady and asked if I might trouble her for a copy of the book. She was glad to oblige, without asking for any credentials, my name, or anything else for that matter. She insisted that I take all three levels and gave me another book bag to carry them in. She apologized for not having the supplemental materials at hand. I made a stern face. She scurried about looking for anything else she could give me. "You doing anything with that table?" I asked. (She might have given it to me if I had been serious. I was satisfied with my Latin books. Why be greedy?)

Our last stop was to see the art history fellow. Victoria Rose turned on the southern charm. "I do declare," She oozed, "It is simply scandalous that these publishers hire such handsome men to tempt us into adopting their books." The bedraggled fellow smiled and tried to suck in his paunch. His waist went from a size 44 to a size 43 ½. Victoria Rose smiled sweetly. "It is such a shame that we won’t be able to stay for your presentation, we have such an awful distance to drive," She said, batting her eyelashes. She dropped her eyes and continued, "I would be ever so grateful if you would let me take one of your charming little art history books with me." The guy nearly fell over himself getting a copy for her. It weighed a mere seventy-five pounds. "Why, bless your little pea-pickin’ heart," She crooned. Hey, did her sweater just get tighter?

Next it was my turn. I scoped out the other copy of the book he had prominently displayed.

"I thought I might ask the same indulgence. Do you have a copy I might take?"

For some reason, he didn’t seem as impressed with me as he was with Victoria Rose. He eyeballed me and said flatly, "Sorry sport. I only had two copies and I just gave one to your lady friend there." His eyes narrowed. "What school district did you say you were with, again?"

"Uh… I’m from Mayberry," I stuttered, "Charlatan High."

"I was just there last week!" He said enthusiastically. "You must know Edna Krabappel, the head of the art department."

Gulp.

"Sure…" I lied. "Who doesn’t know Edna? Yep… Good old Edna… Oh, we go way back, Edna and me."

He wasn’t buying. He smiled a thin smile. "Just fill out this form for me and I’ll be sure to send you a copy right away."

I explained that I was from another department… Yeah, that’s right, and uh… Mrs. Krabappel couldn’t make it and asked me to get the book for her. I would have to let her fill out the form and get back to him.

"Tell Edna hello," he called after us as we beat a hasty retreat.

On the way home we just happened to pass by the former home of Robert E. Howard, creator of Conan the Barbarian and author of over 800 stories. It had been turned into a museum. I had always wanted to visit the place, but for some reason I never managed to get there. As we approached, Victoria Rose asked if I wanted to stop. I couldn’t resist. Bob Howard has been an important character in my personal mythos since boyhood.

As youths Racer X and I, along with several of our friends, made many a midnight excursion to his resting place, scaling the cemetery wall in order to pour libations on his grave in honor of his birthday or the anniversary of his death. In fact, Racer X met the future Mrs. X on just such an excursion. I bet we have a hundred stories about such occasions, some containing adult themes and nudity, so they are probably best left buried, (so to speak.) As an adult, I even had the honor of attending the dedication of the historical marker that graces his gravesite.

When they were making the first Conan movie, starring the current governor of California, some of us even wrangled permission to miss a day of classes to attend a lecture at the local university, to which Howard’s papers had been donated. The speaker was L. Sprague DeCamp, noted science fiction author, and inheritor of the Conan legacy. He was a fascinating speaker and seemed thrilled to have young fans in the audience. He had someone take pictures of us with him, and somewhere I still have a cassette tape of his lecture.

And now I was at R.E. Howard's boyhood home. The place didn’t appear to be open to visitors, but we could at least get a few pictures of the outside. Around front was a sign listing telephone numbers. Anyone wishing a tour would ring up one of the local guides and someone would be up to the house directly to let you in. We called, and within ten minutes a spry little old lady was giving us the grand tour and filling us in on the straight dope concerning life in the Howard house. We gawked at collectibles and memorabilia, listened to the lore and took a few snapshots of the little abode that seemed so far from the realms of Conan the Barbarian and Solomon Kane.

I stood in the tiny room, connected to his mother’s sickroom by an ever-open window, where the author spun his fantastic yarns. In the old Underwood typewriter was a sheet of paper that bore his final words:

All fled, all done,

So lift me on the pyre;

The feast is over

And the lamps expire.

And though a simple recreation, the place still seemed infused with the spirit of the man.

(Click the Pic)

As a memento of the day Victoria Rose gifted me with a picture of young Robert Howard in front of the house with his dog Patches. It was held in a frame made of the pickets from the original fence. That fence had been destroyed in a tornado in recent times, so what remained of the pickets were used to make limited edition, numbered, collector’s items. (I got number 39, chosen for a certain charm of the frame rather than for its number in the series.) I took it home and hung it over my bed. That night before settling in to sleep I glanced at it with the thought that perhaps, old Bob might bring me a little luck and inspiration with my writing. The next morning the phone rang. It was the editor of the local gazette. "We may be creating a new reporter position the first of next month and your name was at the top of the list," he said. "Are you still interested?"

Not bad, Bob. Not bad at all.

Comments

[Rx]

Wonderfully retold Tehuti; I concur, the simple excrusion to Howard's home was awash with personal memories. Not to be undone, our visit with you and Victoria Rose was most inspiring as well - just the refreshment I needed. Congradulations on the job offer. Keep us in the loop.

[Rx]

Rx:

A sidebar note:

Robert E. Howard was affectionately refered to by his literary peers, such as H.P. Lovecraft, as "Two-Gun Bob." Who imagined him as a throughback to the 'ol west gun slinger, rough neck.

[James]

That was sounds like SUPER fun. ^_^