Bonanza
~*~*~ Advent Calendar ~*~*~
* Day 17 *

Summary:  With great deliberation, Ben takes time to update his journal.

Rating:  G
Word Count:  940

Reflections

An old man sits at his table.  His eyes, once the color of dark chocolate, are clouded.  Despite wearing spectacles, he must turn the oil lamp up high in order to read the text.  He picks up a pen and painstakingly begins to write the day’s entry.

24 December 1899
Virginia City
High of 21ºF; low of 7ºF
Full Moon

They’re all gone now.

My wives, my sons, my friends, even my enemies gave up the ghost long ago and left me behind.

I live in a small cottage now not too far from Josiah Martin, great-grandson of one of the first doctors in Virginia City.  Not my choice but  navigating the stairs at the ranch even just twice a day became too much after the “itis” twins —bursitis and arthritis — and all their cursed relations took over.

I fought Josiah for years every time he argued I belonged in town where he could check on me.  After all, I had Hop Sing to keep a watchful eye.  Nothing ever gets by that man.  From hidden injuries to broken bones, sniffles to flu, toothaches to heartaches, he knows and sees all.  He has broth and hot coffee at the ready any time of the day or night. And his magic salve.

Or had.  When he joined his ancestors, I gave in.  Now it’s Mrs. Doogan, a mountain of an Irish woman, who brings my meals and cleans these three small rooms on B Street.  She reminds me a lot of Inger with her no-nonsense sensibilities and strong hands.  God knows I need them now, though I am loathed to admit it.

Josiah stops by nearly every day.  He barks orders and scolds relentlessly, but despite his gruff exterior, he smiles when I call him Paul and reminds me gently that his grandfather passed nearly twenty years ago.  Roy Coffee a decade before that.  I often wonder how my boys would ever have become men without their assistance.

The potbellied stove keeps my front room comfortable. It’s smaller than any of the bedrooms at the ranch, but larger than my quarters on the Wanderer.  It’ll do.

I brought little with me to this cottage. Pictures of my loves sit on the mantel along with Marie’s music box that Joe recovered long ago. It still works, but it breaks my heart to hear it, so I leave it unwound.  Adam’s old guitar stands in the corner. A collection of Hoss’s whittlings sits on the table beside my red leather chair in easy reach for fingering. How those big hands were able to achieve such detail is still a mystery to me. 

The trunk beside me contains a lifetime of memories—nearly a hundred oil-skin covered journals that still smell of brine and salt air and a bit of pine.  The original leather-bound volume was a gift from the first captain I sailed with as a cabin boy at age 10.  He suggested I keep a log, saying a life unexamined was not worth living.

In the beginning, I wrote little more than the date, weather conditions, lunar phases and whatnot.  But as I grew, I filled pages with descriptions of the people I had met, events witnessed, conversations had or overheard—the sights, sounds, and aromas of foreign ports and harbors around the world.  At year’s end I heeded the captain’s command to reflect on the experiences that were making me into a man. “Chart your own course, boy, and make corrections as you go along so you can become the man you are meant to be.” 

And so I have every December.  It is the best advice I ever received or passed on.

Over the years I often read random entries to my sons. Tales of my adventures. Stories about their mothers. The journey west.  The struggle to build the Ponderosa.  Pages of dreams and heartaches, and lessons learned—all recorded nightly to be reviewed at year’s end before the next volume is begun.

Who am I kidding?  I’m 91 now. This is my last entry; my last journal.  My journey is over. 

Ben dips his pen into the ink well and scratches the last words he will write.   The End

He closes the cover on the final volume and places it reverently in the trunk.  The time for reflection is over.  He will never again be the man he once was.

He stokes the fire in the stove before settling into his old leather chair, pulling a quilt over his shoulders.  It’s time for that long winter’s sleep.

***

Are his ears ringing with that damn tinnitus again?  Or did he hear bells?   He listens closely.  No.  It’s nothing.  Nothing but the wind.  Nothing but an old man’s memories rattling around in his ancient brain.

Then voices, both deep and high-pitched marked by laughter, break the silence.

Ben rises slowly but the front door crashes open before he can reach it.  He is instantly assaulted by arms and legs, and hugs.

“Papa!  There you are, Papa!”

“Merry Christmas, Ben!”

“We brought a tree, PopPop!”

“And lots of goodies, old man!”

“Will you read to us, Gramps?”

“Tell us a story, Grandad!”

*****

1 January 1900
Ponderosa Ranch
High of 36ºF; low of 14ºF
New moon

I am not the man I was, but I am the man I was meant to be— grandfather, great-grandfather, and great-great-grandfather to the next generation of Cartwrights who have come to live with me on the Ponderosa. 
I am where I belong.   Always and forever.

________

Author’s note:   Becky Sims’ wonderful guide to writing Bonanza places Ben’s birth in 1808, so it is not unconceivable that he would live to see the 20^th Century.

Link to 2019 Advent Calendar – December 18:

Good Intentions and Unplanned Consequences by Cheaux