Time Waits for One Man

I have been thinking a great deal about the human concept of time. How warped it is, both to the microcosm of one individual and to the macrocosm of the species.

When a human undertakes a difficult and critical task – like a revolution or exploration, to some degree they are contemplating the entire length of earth’s timeline. They are positioning themselves and their task on an immense continuum of cause-and-effect. They’re seeing a larger picture, as it were.

But then in a few short years, most of the species – which did in fact benefit from that perspective – condenses the timeline back to their own era, their own sphere.

What I mean to suggest this, that one man can consider the world, while ALL men consider only themselves. I suppose to some degree this isn’t universal. Large scale building projects, wars and so forth, could be argued as many men coming together in an image of the future, but also such decisions usually come down to one man. One Pharaoh who wants a tomb. One emperor who fancies and arch. One leader who wants a war.

And yes, we can talk about the tremendous complexity of decisions and survival landscapes and so forth, but I don’t really care about that. The confusion of the universe has a tendency to average out unless a man gets involved.

Back when we were building the Transcontinental, there weren’t that many of us. A few thousand workers total. We would set up advance crews that would go out and speculate, appraise the land to determine the route that the road should take. Usually the path of least resistance. Across the Midwest, the great plains, the land was remarkably flat and even. The advance crews determined that the levelers would have very little to do! It would be easy, this massive construction. That was…until they disappeared. Inspectors and levlers, sometimes even the telegraph line workers would find these advance crews slaughtered, 10 or 20 at a time. The crews shrank in size. The work became a hazard. But not for long. The chief engineer of the UP was a former General, one Grenville M. Dodge.

The man was militaristic and vicious. And very very clever.

At first he posted guards with the advance teams, but that didn’t help when the men were outnumbered. He didn’t bother with discussion. He knew that the road was cutting straight through the Bison migratory path. The natives were just tracking their main food source. They were simply trying to live. And he knew that, but to him, it was a savage lifestyle. To him it was something not worth having. These people had no value, except as pawns.

Dodge got as far as asking who the enemy hated most. The Pawnee? Ah well, lets hire some of them. And so he went to that dwindling people, also trying to eke out an existence in their changing home, and bargained with their young men. Once the road was built, they could have free passage. Once it was built, they’d have a lovely little nest egg, and their people would be spared. Then he gave the railmen a simple command.

Shoot every bison.

I will never forget the sight. The train clicking through the tall grass at speeds I’d never moved before, nothing around us but the sea of nature. Great crowds of seething humps and snorting noses – majestic, enormous creatures that had eyes that were so soft…and the glee, the vengeful, hateful glee and greed on the faces around me as every one of them took aim and fired. Every herd we crossed. Every animal on the tracks. Hundreds. All left to rot on the ground.

It is the only time I have ever witnessed such large scale extinction efforts. And it astounded me. I will venture to say it was thoroughly traumatic. I had been pursuing these amazing tasks, the canal, the rails, and so on…as some kind of achievement! This was meant to be a new world that would perhaps look on me with a kinder eye. This was meant to be a new time, that forgot the old ways. But forgetting is costly.
Every week or so, we would park the train – a kind of rolling work barracks – at the end of the line. We’d make our little camp. Usually the men clumped together and lit fires. Sometimes Towns of canvas tents and lean-to’s would spring up around us with signs offering the customary revels human men enjoy. Sometimes there was a lag, which meant for quieter evenings. I always offered to be on guard. I preferred it, because it gave me the chance to move backward along the track, sometimes for miles, and take what I could from the carcasses. 

So many animals dead, and no way to tell the men who depended upon them to come and fetch what was left, to preserve it, to do it justice or the customary honors. Just a cloud of decomposition and flies.

One man and the few he convinced. One man, with one command, almost annihilated a species, and crushed the Sioux and Cheyenne into a remnant. One man could have done the opposite if he’d cared to. One man could have been flexible.

Impactful things are always done in smaller scale. Significant things (for good or ill) always begin with one man. One man sees a larger time scale, places his own actions in the continuum of humanity’s lifespan. One man seeks greatness. Dodge and the men who hired him, envisioned a land of industry and wealth. He saw a future that…well…largely came to be, because he acted on his vision.

Large groups move in tiny steps. To the tune of three miles of track a day, or five advance scouts, or ten years of marching, or fifty years of law suits, or a hundred years of tyranny.

I find this depressing, even though it can also make for positive results. One slave taking over a Confederate ship, rescuing his fellows, running a blockade in the dead of night, fighting for his freedom…becoming a senator. Even though that happens…it does not happen as often, because it requires that one man to fight the world. Dodge only had to kill. Robert Smalls had to live.

Time dilates for good, and for the good of all; human time opens its mouth and swallows righteousness. The Good Of All takes the longest. The villainy of one man is the easiest thing, the swiftest thing. Takes barely the breath to utter one sentence.

“Shoot them all.”

 

The Century of War and Wandering

Recent events have put me in mind of my early years in the New World. You know I arrived here in 1729, assuming of course that you have read my Simon’s Snacks entry called “The Weaver Estate”. You know that I lived for a time as a woman, that I married myself to obtain my own property (it is a bit confusing and had to do with keeping the wealth in the “family”) You also can guess that I then killed the devil I wed in a small church ceremony and then assumed his identity, in order to effectively manage my estates. But there is a large gap here, sown with all manner of vagaries by this humble creature. And while you may have been paying attention, and heard my brief story about being confused for a Wendigo, my little aside about fighting in the Revolution, you don’t really know anything about me until we come to the railroad.

That is a gap of one hundred years and there is a reason for this.

This was a rather bloody and introspective portion of my existence thus far. Long spans were spent dwelling in caves, wandering the wilds, flirting with destruction, and coming to a decision about the entity I chose to be. They were the days when I began experimenting, when I began to fear less, when I finally tired of war, and decided never to fight again. So that century was a bit of a coming of age. It is filled with many detailed and subtle nuances, tiny stories that are not fit for Snacks, but rather more like an assortment of amuse-bouche.

And so I have resolved to tel them as such. Those who “spend time” with me regularly, of whom you may be one, know that I often go on at length in “chats”. This  makes me uneasy, on the one hand because I dislike dominating the discussion, and on the other because, while I may be felicitous with written speech, I am still unaccustomed to the nuances of conversation. I am learning from talking to you — and rather quickly too — but I am still vexed by uncertainty, and so would prefer to record them here. This will also provide any gentle readers who do not chat with me to peruse the details and check them against their knowledge of history.

I will call this series of entries the “Tales of War and Wandering” and will both sort them that way by tags, and title them as such – Similar to how the Monstrous Myths cycle (I apologize for their hiatus, but my folklorist is off being a responsible adult) and the FAQ cycle. I will also tag them with “history”. I shall endeavor to fill these in with some regularity.

For reference, this cycle will range from the dates 1745 to about 1855, and will include information on the Seven Years War (also called the French-Indian War), the Erie Canal, my time in Ohio, the Revolution, the War of 1812, the beginnings of the railroad, and all that lies in between.

If you have questions, I encourage you to ask them in the comments, as many readers may also have the same inquires – it benefiting everyone to reply to all simultaneously.

I do thank you kindly for participating.

Free Keys

Gentle Readers, 

I am pleased to announce a Tapas Give-Away to commemorate something which even I, in all my long life, never expected. It has been one year since the release of my first book and  this humble experiment of ours has thrived! Tapas and I wish to celebrate, so please join us in commemorating this achievement! Whether you are an original or a new subject, I do hope you’ll find these tales monstrously entertaining.

You should receive a message in your Tapas inbox soon, giving you some keys!

Thank you for your patronage!

Another “Simon’s Snack”!

Is a 150 year old case of death under suspicious circumstances closed, or was a monkey wrongly accused? You be the judge.

This story answers a question asked a while ago, about mysteries I could never solve. It addresses my time in Virginia City, during the silver mining boom. It contains a lovely Chinese recipe! You may find it at Tapas!


Participate in the short story collection by asking your questions in the segment at the end! You may be featured in an upcoming story!

Easy Mini Apple Pies, a recipe

I’m sure we’ve all had the experience: you’re standing in line for something else, at a coffee shop, or a gas station, or a fast food location, or a cafe, and suddenly…you see them, or smell them, and the helpful clerk says “Would you like an apple pie for a dollar?

And you give it a moment of thought. You cave. You cannot resist.

But I prefer to know who made my food and what’s in it. So, here is a very simple and very quick recipe for a tiny apple pie that will be just as delicious, if not moreso.


Tools:

  • Mandolin slicer or other appliance for producing extremely thin slices
  • Large mixing bowl
  • A ravioli press (tiny folding clamshell with a textured edge for making ravioli. If you don’t have one, I suggest using a shallow dish to fill the pastry and then using a fork to seal the edge)
  • Baking pan
  • Small pot
  • Spatula
  • Whisk

Ingredients: 

  • 2 sheets of puff pastry (any flavor or brand, and you can use crescent roll sheets too)
  • 3 apples (of all different types. I personally chose a Red Delicious, a honey crisp, and a Granny Smith)
  • 2 large lemons
  • 8 Tbsp (or more) brown sugar
  • 1 tsp vanilla
  • Cinnamon stick or fresh ground cinnamon
  • Pinch or two of clove
  • Pinch or two of nutmeg
  • Some loose flour, a couple Tbsp or so
  • Powdered sugar
  • Butter (not much)
  • About a cup of some sort of alcohol (rum, brandy, whisky, bourbon. I used ginger snap vodka and dark rum)

Instructions:

  1. Preheat the oven as per the directions on the pastry packaging 
  2. Juice the lemons and pour juice into mixing bowl
  3. Thinly slice the apples (I suggest peeling and quartering the apples before doing this, and add to bowl
  4. Add half the sugar, spices, and vanilla and toss until the apples are completely coated. Allow to sit for about ten minutes. Drain the excess moisture into the pot
  5. Roll out the pastry on a floured cutting board and cut out the shapes (it should be about the size of your ravioli press or your shallow dish
  6. Place the pastry shape in the press or dish. Fill with apples (depends on the size of the press/dish). Fold in half or fold while tucking the apples inside, and seal shut. If using the press, I recommend flouting it lightly so that the pastry doesn’t stick to it as you seal
  7. Bake (this will likely take longer by half again as much as the instructions indicate. I used a spatula to lift and flip these beautiful things about five minutes before completely done to crisp up both sides.
  8. While these are baking, add the butter, alcohol, the other half of the sugar and extra spices to the pot. You can even add some apple juice if you want more sauce, and reduce this over medium heat until you have a nice sauce. If it doesn’t thicken as you like, sprinkle in some flour while whisking.

To serve, brush with a bit of melted butter, powder with sugar, and drizzle with sauce. Or roll the top side in the sauce and powder with sugar. Or just dip in sauce and shove directly into face.

The Best Spaghetti!

 I just received this image from Tumblr user @philosophy-and-coffee, who this evening, made the spaghetti recipe from my book! The one with the blood in it!
Well, done my friend! I do love to know that my tinkering has paid off!

And if any of you make any of my recipes at home, do please send photos my way, so that they may take their place here!