The Greywater Gazette
A Clear Saturday; the Hum Lasts Three Minutes Even; the Town Finds It Has Things to Do
On the morning of Saturday, November the fifteenth, Greywater Falls woke to a clear sky and a long silence that was not the held-note silence of the past season but the ordinary silence of a town on a cold morning before anyone has quite decided to be up. The lake's ice caught the risen sun and sent it back in long diagonals across the square. Calloway walked to the Kettle at eight with the green notebook under one arm and a library-request form under the other, which tells this editor — who was at her own window with coffee, watching — that Calloway has identified a next task, and that the next task is, specifically, the town's archive, and that this is the most sensible and least alarming thing anyone has done in Greywater Falls in six weeks. She ordered eggs. She sat by the window. She read.
T. Aldercott was at the Gazette at nine with the typewriter case, and this editor let her in, and she set the typewriter on the table — not the counter, not the chair beside the counter, but the worktable in the back, where this editor does the layout, which required moving three issues of the October run and a box of type slugs, and which T. Aldercott did without being asked and with the deliberate care of someone who intends to be working in a space for some time and understands that the courtesies of a shared room are not small things. She has not said what she is typing. This editor has not asked. What she types is hers until she offers it; this paper has always understood that distinction, even when it did not always honour it. Doreen Halloway sent Russ Dunmore over at ten with two Standings wrapped in brown paper, which is what Doreen does when she decides that a working situation requires provisions and does not want to make a production of it.
Russ delivered the Standings and stood in the doorway for a moment, looking at the lost-and-found box on its shelf — thirteen items, lid closed, quiet as a box of old letters ought to be — and then at T. Aldercott at the worktable, and then at this editor, and he said: 'Looks about right in here.' This editor agreed. He left. It did look about right. The light came in at the angle it comes in at in mid-November, the typewriter made its mechanical industry, the Standings were warm through the brown paper, and the box sat on its shelf holding its thirteen items and requiring nothing from anyone, which is the correct final state of a thing that has said everything it had to say and folded its hands and waited, with the patient dignity of correspondence that has been delivered and received and is now, simply, filed.
At dusk the returned gathered at the ice-line — Mr. Whiskers, the drake, the rabbit, the sparrow — and they hummed the held low note into the clear, cold air. Toby Fern timed it at three minutes exactly, which he noted in the Watch with the scrupulous precision he has brought to all twenty-two entries, and then added, in parentheses, that it was the first time the duration had been a round number, as though the hum had measured itself and was satisfied. Agnes Crewe's light was on in the cottage nearest the water. Calloway and T. Aldercott stood on the bank with their coats on, and this editor stood between them, and the four of them — plus Toby, a little apart with his notebook, the way he prefers — listened to the lake say what it has been saying since October, more quietly now, the way you say a thing more quietly when the person you are saying it to has finally heard it; and the three minutes ended, and the returned turned from the water and went where they go, and the ice gave back the last of the sun, and the clear sky darkened in the particular way it darkens when there are no clouds to catch any colour and the dark is simply the dark, which is its own kind of sufficiency.
From Around the Falls
T. Aldercott Establishes a Working Arrangement at the Gazette; the Worktable Is Cleared; Standings Arrive at Ten
T. Aldercott is understood to be working on something at the Gazette's layout table, beginning this Saturday. The typewriter has been heard through the window at intervals. The subject of the work has not been announced and this editor sees no cause to announce it on T. Aldercott's behalf. Doreen Halloway provided provisions. The arrangement appears satisfactory to all parties.
Calloway Files a Library-Request Form for Back Issues; the Archive Has Not Been Formally Catalogued Since 2009; Gerald Pith Volunteers to Help on Wednesday
Calloway presented a library-request form to this editor Saturday morning for access to the Gazette's complete back-issue archive, which occupies three lateral files, two banker's boxes, and one milk crate of disputed provenance dating to approximately 1998. Gerald Pith, who happened to be at the Kettle when Calloway mentioned the project, offered to assist on Wednesday. Marigold Vance said she would keep the coffee on. The cataloguing has needed doing for fifteen years. This editor is grateful.
Hank Mossley Reports the Hardware Step Has Not Required Shovelling Today; Takes This as a Sign the Week Has Conducted Itself Correctly
Hank Mossley opened the hardware at the usual hour and reports the step clear, the salt supply adequate for the season, and a small but steady Saturday trade in ice scrapers, furnace filters, and one snow shovel with a new handle. No storm lanterns requested. 'Lantern season's over,' he said. He appeared satisfied. He was not misquoted.
Letters to the Editor
“Wren — I wanted to say, and I know this is a funny place to say it, but you're the one who prints things so here it is: I counted eleven cups at the counter Saturday morning and then I counted again and got eleven again and I wrote it on the specials board. First time I've written the number in I don't know how long. Eleven. It was right. I knew it was right because I wasn't afraid of it being wrong. I don't have a better way to explain that. The eggs were good this morning. The light was good. Gerald came in without the notebook and ordered the eggs too and we sat there and ate them and it was just Saturday, you know? It was just a Saturday. I forgot those were allowed. — M.”
“For the record: three minutes exactly. I've been timing the hum for twenty-two days and it's never been a round number before and I don't know what that means but it felt like it meant something, the way the last page of a book is still a page but you hold it differently. Agnes told me once that the lake doesn't count the way we count — it counts done and not-done, and that's all. I think maybe three minutes even is the lake saying done. I could be wrong. I've been wrong about a lot of the categories this season and then had to build new ones. I'm okay with that now. I'm keeping the Watch going until the ice goes out, because the ice going out is data too, and somebody should be here for it. That's me, I guess. — T. Fern, Lake Watch, Day 22”