seeingyosemite

"Yosemite Dreamin'" is proud to present the following story, which truly captures the spirit of our theme!

Gerald Hargrove did not like trips back to the Midwest to visit his wife’s relatives. It was not that the people they visited were unkind or even uninteresting, in their own rural way, but Gerald found it difficult to relate to the static, relentless ways of Middle America. Without being all that cultivated himself, he had grown used to the bustle of California with its daily influx of people from other states and countries. California seemed to be the future, while the rest of America had gotten stuck sometime before World War II.

The war years had brought change everywhere, however. World War II had swept through the entire country, displacing all military aged men and some women, thrusting them into unfamiliar roles in exotic lands. Gerald’s wife, Lucille, had come from one of those quaint, unremarkable mid-western towns in Southern Indiana. Hers happened to be called Dautrerive.

He, a dashing naval officer, and she, a dynamic navy nurse in a military hospital, had met on one of the beaches near Sydney, Australia. Their courtship and marriage, like most during the war years, had been compressed into weeks rather than months. She adored this handsome Californian and he felt attracted to the lively sense of humor and love of adventure of this attractive Indiana brunette. What else but a love of adventure would motivate a farm girl from the mid-west to come all the way to Sydney, Australia and join in this titanic struggle between America and the Empire of Japan. Married in a charming chapel just off Honolulu Beach in Hawaii, the Hargroves eventually made it back to California where they settled in the San Francisco Bay Area. Thanks to the G.I. Bill, Gerald followed in his father’s footsteps and became a physician.

When Lucille suggested another trip back to Indiana, Gerald groaned. By car or train, it took two or three days of continuous travel. Then he foresaw the endless stream of visits to late Victorian parlors with women so prim and proper that he assumed they were all Daughters of the American Revolution.

____________________________________________________________________________________

This and more had passed through his mind at the time Lucille suggested the trip. It was still passing through his mind as they sat on the train a few months later, pulling over of the Rocky Mountains and sliding down into the endless plains of Middle America. The Rockies reminded him of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, only bigger. As a native Californian, he adored the Sierras. He especially enjoyed Yosemite Valley where he had often camped with this family as a child, and where he took Lucille for their first trip when they got back to California.

Despite their miserable financial situation when he was a medical student, they had splurged and stayed in the Alawahnee Lodge with its massive pine rafters and Indian rugs. Just a few feet outside the lodge, they stood and looked toward Bridal Vail Falls in one direction and magnificent Half Dome in the other. He and Lucille strolled down the path that lead toward the sheer cliffs of Half Dome. The Merced River runs cool and inviting down the middle of the valley. Lucille, enchanted by everything, loved to sit by the edge of the river on granite boulders and let the cool waters of the Merced run over her feet.

“It’s all so beautiful, Gerald,” she declared.

“It is, isn’t it.”

“Does Merced mean anything?”

“Yes, it means mercy in Spanish.” He splashed her with a little water. “The original Spanish explorers found the river as it runs down the Central Valley. It’s really hot there in the summertime. They probably thought they would die of thirst, then they came across this wonderful, cool river. They called it the River of Mercy, or Rio Merced.”

“That’s a lovely story, Gerald.”

For whatever reason, he thought about that river as they descended the last foothills of the Rockies and raced toward the disturbing flatness of the Great Plains. Lucille slept in the chair next to his. He watched as the light disappeared from the sky and he fell asleep without pulling down the shade.

As the miles and the states rolled by, neither Gerald nor Lucille were mindful of the passage of time or distance. With the coming of dawn, they had almost reached Kansas City. By noon they would pass the Mississippi at St. Louis and central Indiana by early evening.

___________________________________________________________________________________________

Lucille’s many relatives waited at the train station in Dautrerive when the train arrived. Gerald recognized no one, even though he had met several in previous trips, but he kissed and hugged them all anyway. To him it looked as if all of geriatric Dautrerive knew Lucille and just waited to come and greet her.

“And this is my Aunt Romain and Uncle Bilsby,” Lucille announced.

“Pleased to meet you,” Gerald responded.

“And Cousin Flavus and his wife, Faith.”

“Nice to see you again.”

“And Mrs. Thornsbury, my maternal grandmother.”

“Delighted.”

The introductions continued as the group spilled into the several late model cars which later rumbled off downtown. They drove several blocks to a plain, brick building with a tattered red and white awning with the letters P.K. printed on it. Lucille’s relatives had reserved the entire back room with its yellow walls and crooked pictures of pastoral scenes from Bavaria. The tables were covered with red and white checkered slick tablecloths and old Chianti bottles with a collection of dried wax and dust. Gerald surveyed the menu and chose the chicken fried steak with mushrooms. He also ordered red wine which the pimply waiter brought in a frosty wine glass. Gerald took a sip and screwed up his face.

“This wine is cold,” he told the waiter who continued to serve pre-dinner drinks.

“Yes, sir,” the waiter answered. “That’s how people like to drink it here.

“And I suppose it comes from a jug?”

“No, sir. It comes from one of those newfangled box things. That way it stays fresh and doesn’t go bad. We can keep one of them things for months.”

Gerald warmed the wine glass with his hands and continued to survey the crowd from which he picked up isolated bits of conversations.

“Aunt Sophie slipped and broke her hip. Now she’s in a nursing home.”

“And Charlie, her brother, he’s got Alzheimer’s Disease and doesn’t even recognize his own children. It’s pathetic.”

When the dinner came. Gerald had warmed his wine to room temperature. He was surprised that it wasn’t as bad as he had expected. He enjoyed the chicken fried steak and mashed potato with the mushroom sauce, even though the mushrooms seemed like they came from a can.

The guests ate until about 8:30 pm when they seemed to all get up on cue to head for the door. One of Lucille’s uncles paid for Gerald and Lucille and everyone else paid their own bills, creating an incredible headache for the young waiter. After their long train ride, the heavy meal, and the cheap wine, Gerald hoped they’d be heading directly for the motel. “We’re going to the motel, aren’t we?”

“Not quite yet, Gerald,” Lucille answered. “We have to drop by my Uncle Harvey and his wife Helen’s place. Is that all right, Dear?”

“Sure.”

____________________________________________________________________________________

The farm house they entered looked like all the others around the town, square, two storied, with a porch and accompanying swing. Harvey and Helen greeted Lucille and Gerald at the door and ushered them back into the parlor. A television set dominated the room, or at least provided a focal point. The furniture looked like anything you might see in an older Sears mail order catalog. Gerald did notice the two large bookshelves, filled with books and assorted knick-knacks, which flanked the mantel. Among the objects, he identified a bobbing-head Mickey Mouse.

“You’ve been to Disneyland in Anaheim?” Gerald asked Harvey.

“No. One of Helen’s relatives sent us that as a gift.”

“Nice. Have you ever been to California?”

“No,” replied Harvey. “But I’d like to go some day.” He glanced over at Helen who gave him a knowing look. “But I guess we’ll never get the chance.”

“Why not?” asked Gerald.

“Oh. Lots of things. For one, we don’t have that much money to spend. Since the war ended, farm prices haven’t been the greatest. Then there’s Helen’s health. She’s got bad arthritis of the back. Even walking short distances bothers her a lot.”

“Too bad. It’s kind of fun to visit California. There’s a lot of interesting things to see and do,” Gerald volunteered.

Harvey rose from his overstuffed chair and motioned to Gerald to follow. “Come on. Let me show you something.”

Harvey lead Gerald to a door under the stairwell that lead to the basement.

“Now close your eyes. I’ll lead you down,” Harvey requested.

Gerald thought the whole thing was a bit weird and over dramatic, but he closed his eyes. He felt Harvey’s hand take his and lead him step by step down the stairs until his feet touched the firm basement floor.

“Now. Open your eyes,” Harvey announced.

Gerald opened his eyes and looked around the basement walls. Besides the boxes of preserves and the coal furnace, the walls of the basement had been painted with a panoramic view of Yosemite Valley. There was Half Dome and El Capitan, Bridal Vail Falls, Yosemite Falls, the Alawahnee Lodge, the Merced River and much more. “Did you paint this?”

“Sure did,” replied Harvey.

“How long did it take you?”

“Seven years in all, give or take a year.”

Gerald looked around in astonishment. Although the style appeared primitive, he could recognize everything. There were close ups of deer and chipmunks. Trout jumped out of the Merced River and Canadian Geese floated on the water. There was even a view of the Alawahnee Lodge with its massive pitched roof. “Incredible, Harvey. It’s truly incredible.”

“So you like it?”

“It’s fantastic.”

“Is it accurate, Gerald. I mean, can you recognize everything?”

“It’s amazing, Harvey. And you’ve really never been there.”

“Unfortunately not.”

Gerald approached the walls to appreciate the detail. The rough walls of the basement became apparent, but did not detract from the effect. “Can I call Lucille down to see?”

“Sure.”

Lucille and Helen came down the stairs to join them. Lucille also stared in wonder while Helen beamed with obvious pride.

“It must have taken you years, Harvey,” Lucille concluded.

“It did. About seven to be exact.”

“How did you know what it looked like?” Lucille asked.

Harvey pulled out a binder in a space near the furnace and flipped it open on a workbench table. Arranged in neat rows were dozens of post cards of Yosemite Valley. Some were photos and others old, hand tinted prints. They were clustered by subject with several views of the same subject.

“I spent years collecting them all,” Harvey explained. “Some I would find in post card sales, others I ordered by mail. A couple of people sent me some from California. Slow but sure, I got the collection together before I started, then continued as I was going.” He swung out his arm in a panoramic gesture as large as the valley itself.

“Why didn’t you just come out to California and visit Yosemite yourself?” Gerald asked. Harvey shrugged. “Helen’s health. My job. The kids in school and college. It just never worked out.”

“Would you like to come out some day?” Gerald asked. “You could stay with us and drive up to the mountains in a day. Stay a week. Take all the photos you want.”

Harvey looked at Helen who smiled. “Maybe some day. When the house is paid for and Helen’s feeling a bit better.”

They returned upstairs where they concluded the evening with toasts of elderberry wine to Harvey and Helen’s eventual trip to California.

“To Yosemite!” Gerald proposed.

“To Yosemite!” the others responded while raising their glasses of sweet, red wine.

______________________________________________________________________

Over the next week, Lucille and Gerald made the circuit of her other Indiana relatives. Although all of them proved friendly and polite, and some even cultivated, no one left an impression like that of Harvey and Helen and their Yosemite-lined basement. Gerald continued to think of the exotic basement off and on during their whole train trip back to California.

When they got back to their home in the Bay Area, Gerald told his California relatives about the extraordinary basement in Dautrerive, Indiana. He began imagining how the four of them would go up and stay for a week in Yosemite Valley. Maybe, if they made their reservations long enough in advance, they could stay at least one night in the Alawahnee Lodge. They could all hike up to Yosemite Falls and watch the water cascade down into the valley where it thundered on the granite boulders below. Europe might have its cathedrals, but Yosemite was a cathedral sculpted in granite directly by the hand of God. Harvey needed to see it, and he, Gerald Hargrove, wanted to show it to him.

Gerald penned a long letter to Harvey and Helen explaining his plan, down to the details of train reservations and hotel costs. He also thanked them both for their kindness and hospitality.

Two weeks later, Lucille showed Gerald a letter she had received from Helen.

“Dear Lucille and Gerald.

Thank you so much for your kind letter and invitation to visit California. We both enjoyed your visit so much. Harvey especially appreciated Gerald’s kind remarks about his Yosemite murals. Unfortunately, a week ago, Gerald suffered a massive stroke. He remained six days in a coma in the intensive care unit before he passed away peacefully. Since I cannot live alone, I will be moving into a local nursing home. I only hope the future owners of our home will cherish Harvey’s murals as much as we did.

With all my love, Helen Stokesbury.”

Gerald grabbed the letter and read it for himself. It was true. Every word. What would happen to Harvey’s murals? All that work! All that time!
Someone would whitewash over it and install shelves or some other horror. He felt like getting on the next train to Indiana and saving the murals from certain destruction.

Save them how?

Why?

For whom?

He dropped the letter on the table and sat down in the Queen Anne chair. “Poor Harvey. He never even got to see Yosemite.”