A taste of freedom
by Craig W
12 Aug 2023 681 readers Score 9.4 (52 votes) PDF Mobi ePub Txt
Chapter 7
Keeping the line
Dad: “Hi, ET, how are things? Trip going well? I’m assuming so since you don’t report in every day; I’m guessing you are too busy.”
Dad: “Nice change of subject, ET. Your mom’s fine, really getting on well with Nat’s mom and Elizabeth. The three of them are off out today to the theatre, then a soiree in Pittsburgh centre.”
Craig “We’ve had an awesome couple of days. I got to sail a proper sailing ship yesterday, a brig out on the lake. It’s a replica of an 1812 War ship. Me and Nat had to help set the sails, weigh the anchor, steer her too. Hard work! Lots of running about the deck and pulling on lines and making sure we didn’t get clocked in the face when the yard arms swung round.”
Dad: “I’m all in favour of the Bauer’s yacht and letting the crew do the hard work. Me and your mum went for a nice cruise downriver yesterday.”
Craig: “Then after that, well, today, we went to Sheffield. Not Sheffield back home of course, Sheffield here in Pennsylvania. We stayed overnight in a place called Bradford, then went to a tiny town called Sheffield. Hardly a town at all. Just a street mainly. It was founded by some cutlers from real Sheffield, they set up a factory over here making knives. Like donkeys’ years ago. It’s called ‘Case’. I bought a Case pocket knife from the factory shop, I can’t wait to show it to grandad Wright. Get a proper opinion on it. It looks good to me.”
Dad: “What with ‘Bradford’ and ‘Sheffield’ it sounds like they are trying to replicate Yorkshire out there.”
Craig “Can’t blame them for that, dad. Best place on earth.”
Dad: “God’s Own County”
Craig: “Exactly. Bradford was good too. We went to the Penn Oil Museum. Or was it ‘Pennzoil’? It got complicated. Years ago it was a big company, ‘Standard Oil’, that got broken up because it was a monopoly or something. Nat knew all about it. Gave me a full business and economics lecture on it. A side of politics thrown in too, you know Natty. Did you know some of the first oil in the world was pumped in Bradford? Long before Texas got to be famous for oil. Pennsylvania oil is real high-grade stuff that is best for lubricants. They have a living museum all about it. Big oil derricks and pumps and stuff like that. There’s an ‘Oil Heritage Trail’ we followed part of as we drove around.”
Dad: “Maybe top up Lemon Steroids then…”
Craig “Nat wouldn’t even know where to find the dipstick. He has slaves to do stuff like that for him.”
Dad: “Maybe you can teach him.”
Craig: “I plan to. That, and how to use a knife and fork.”
Dad: “How to use a knife and fork?”
Craig “Long story, dad. For another day. Have you noticed how Americans all use cutlery wrong?”
Dad: “Upside down?”
Craig: “Got it in one.”
Dad: “They’re American, son.”
Craig “Wannabe Aussies?”
Dad: “It’d be a step up.”
Craig: “Maybe I’ll re-name Nat ‘Roo’. See how long it takes him to catch on. Anyway, after the oil museum, we went to the Zippo Museum. That’s here in Bradford too. I bought a Zippo lighter.”
Dad: “Thinking of taking up smoking?”
Craig “No, don’t be daft, dad. Just that a lighter is useful. For lighting stuff.”
Dad: “I didn’t imagine anything else…”
Craig: “We went to ‘Hector Falls’ too. That’s a waterfall. Not like on the scale of the Niagara Falls or anything, but nice enough. We parked up about a mile away and then raced each other down the track to look at it. I won. Took some photos, I’ll show you when we get back. Up round here is where the Allegheny River starts. There’s even a miniature ‘Grand Canyon’ where it cuts through some rocks. Nat said we should come back when we have more time and go hiking, maybe even get some horses and follow the river all the way down to Pittsburgh. That’d take weeks though.”
Dad: “Assuming you survived the banjos…”
Craig “Yeah, maybe we should get an Army escort. Did I tell you we went through Custer City? It’s not a city. Just a tiny one street town. I don’t think it even has anything to do with Custer at all apart from they named it after him.”
Dad: “So, where are you off to tomorrow? Or haven’t you decided yet?”
Craig: “We’re deciding later tonight once we have had dinner. That’s where we are about to go next. Nat thinks we can make it to Noah’s place, over near Philadelphia, tomorrow, if we don’t stop anywhere on the way. Obviously, we’ll stop for ten minutes every hour to rest, proper convoy driving, but not to go to museums or go hiking and stuff. Or if we do stop, we’ll get to Philly the day after. Like I said, we’ve not decided yet.”
* * *
Lemon Steroids just eats up the miles. I mean, it should do, it’s got that big engine, so interstate cruising is what it was made for. Even at Nat speed though we are covering some ground. About forty miles every hour. That doesn’t sound fast, but to average forty miles an hour Nat has to be doing sixty most of the time. We’re doing convoy driving with a ten-minute break every fifty minutes, but it’s still tough on Natters because after the break he has to do another fifty-minute stint rather than swapping over and resting for the next hour. I can’t wait until I’m old enough to drive, then I could share the load with him. Not that Natters minds doing all the driving, he’s loving it.
“Did that last sign indicate Allentown to the right, and Bushkill Falls to the left, at the next junction, Natters?’
“You know it did, Boots, nothing escapes you and your finger sliding across that map. Why not just relax and enjoy the journey, trust the satnav to get us there?”
“I am enjoying the journey, Natters. Just double checking, that’s all. Shouldn’t just rely on the mad woman in the box. The satnav might fail but if we know exactly where we are and have a map, we’ll be fine. We aren’t far from Noah’s place, maybe just about ten to fifteen minutes. We’ll be there an hour earlier than planned, we’ve hardly hit any traffic today and not used up any of our contingency time.”
“Yeah, we’re going to be early. I didn’t really want to do that. It’ll throw Noah.”
Nat has a point. We said we’d be arriving at Noah’s place around sixteen hundred, planned today’s leg of our journey around that arrival time. Noah will be fixed on us growling up the drive to his house dead on time. He’ll have planned his day around exactly that.
“We could pull over and take a break, maybe grab a drink and a snack if we spot somewhere, Nat.”
“We can do, if we see somewhere, but I think we’ll be good. Noah’s getting to be a bit more flexible than you remember him, Boots.”
“From what I hear, Nat, he might even give us a roasting for poor timekeeping…”
* * *
Nat swung the wheel gently over and eased us off the highway and onto the private road marked by a prominent sign, ‘Mason Heritage Wines. Keeping the Line.’ About half a mile along the road the surrounding woodland thinned out as the ground began to rise slightly in to a series of low, rolling hills, all of them covered by row upon row of vines. Ahead, the road forked, one branch heading towards a group of barn-like buildings signposted ‘Winery Tours’, and the second along a wooded valley towards an imposing stone-built, three storey, colonial style house. Most of the big houses here in Pennsylvania have shutters alongside the windows. I thought they were mainly for show, but Nat says they are useful in summer for keeping the heat out, and again in winter, especially stormy winters, for keeping the wind and snow out. Oh, and they all have a big flowery garland on the front door and a flagpole outside for the ‘Stars and Stripes.’ I bet they stick pumpkins out on the porch each Halloween and a Christmas tree each December too. It must be a law over here…
“That’s Noah’s pop coming out to meet us,” said Nat as he slowed gently to a halt right outside the front of the house as though he owned the place, allowing Lemon Steroids to idle for a few seconds before switching off. “Come on, Boots, hop out and I’ll introduce you.”
Noah’s dad seems friendly enough, doesn’t seem to mind Nat parking right outside the doorway at all. I’d have parked a bit to the side, out of the way and leaving room for their car. Or cars. They’re bound to have more than one car. Most people here do. Or maybe they have a garage round the back somewhere to keep them in, so they don’t mind visitors rocking up and commandeering the front spot.
“Great to see you again, Nat. You’ve made good time. We weren’t expecting you until four.”
“We haven’t come far, Sir,” smiled Nat as he shook hands. “We stayed over last night in Towanda – there’s a pretty decent Marriot Fairfield Inn there – and we took a leisurely drive over here after breakfast down Route Six and then the 476. Now, can I introduce you to Craig White, or ‘Boots’ as we called him at college.”
“The English boy, right?” smiled Noah’s pop as he held out a sun-crazed hand. “I’m Todd Mason. I recall seeing you box right back at the start of the college year when we visited, and Noah’s mentioned you a few times. It really sparked him up when Nat phoned and asked if the two of you could call by on your way to Philly, he’s quite keen to show you around. He’s out shooting vines at the moment.”
Shooting vines? What the foxtrot echo is that about? Shooting vines? I know Noah has been over to stay with Travis a few times but I can’t see his pop letting him go out blazing away at the vines. And he can’t mean shooting vines like druggies shoot crack. I mean, you can’t do that can you? Drinking the stuff has to be way better than mainlining wine. Bloody Hell, Noah, what are you up to?
Noah’s dad must have seen the look of bewilderment on my face.
“Noah’s out at the heritage groves, shooting vines by hand. He loves doing it. Now that the grapes have set and are starting to swell, we pluck away the leaves and shoots closest to the bunches to allow them to get more sun. Increases the sugar content. On most of the farm we have machines to do it, but up in the heritage rows we do everything by hand. Noah’s been shooting them ever since he was old enough to stroll down the rows and pick leaves. Probably the most expert shooter in the state by now.”
Nat grinned at me, clearly realising I had gone off down the wrong track but he just smirked and said nothing.
“Leave your keys in the car, Nat. We’ll move it round to the garage later but first I’ll grab a buggy and take you out to Noah. I’m sure he’d love to see you right away now you’re here. He won’t be back here for another hour otherwise and he’ll probably want to show you round the house and to your rooms himself. You know how particular he can be.”
Me and Nat both grinned.
Noah’s dad walked us back over the barns, which turned out to be the processing sheds where they squash the juice out of the grapes and ferment it into wine, even bottle it on site, and grabbed one of the golf cart type buggies that they use to give tours of the vineyard. Americans don’t seem to like walking if they can avoid it.
“It’ll only take us a few minutes to get to the heritage rows and then I’ll leave you with Noah. He’ll bring you back and show you around. Dinner will be at seven.”
It was actually further than I expected: the vineyard must be almost as big as the farm back home in Yorkshire where my gran and grandad live. I like vineyards, they’re neat. Literally. Everything in straight rows, marching over the contours of the land just like a brigade of guardsmen. I can see why Noah likes them.
Bloody hell, I didn’t mean to say that out loud. Now Nat and Mr Mason are both grinning at me like I’m an idiot.
“You can see why Noah and Boots got on so well, Todd,” laughed Nat. “Almost like peas out of the same pod. First thing Boots did when he joined our dorm was unpack all his gear neatly into his drawers and wardrobe, lined his pens up across his desk - in size and color order - and arranged his shoes under the end of his bed. Then he did that every night the moment we all got back from classes before changing into smarts ready for tea. Noah took to him right away.”
I can feel my face turning deep red again. “I was just being tidy, Nat. Making sure everything was where it should be so I could find it instantly. Good training. Just like when I showed you all how to store all your field kit in specific uniform pockets and the same places in your kit bags. That way everybody knows where everything is.”
“A lot of sense in that,” nodded Noah’s dad. Todd. I have to try and get used to calling older people by their Christian names over here in America. They kind of expect it.
“We were very apprehensive about sending Noah away to school, any school, but especially a military one,” said Todd. “Turns out it was the best thing we did. He thrived on the order and discipline. Made some really good friends too, which is even more important. Noah doesn’t make friends easily, yet in a single year at Allegheny he’s made more friends than he has done in all his previous life. Even seems to have found himself a girlfriend, the sister of Travis, the guy from over in Dakota. She’s a really sweet girl. Noah’s been out there twice now to their farm. In fact, the whole Larsen family are coming over a week early before the start of the new year at Allegheny to stay with us, get to know each other. Now, here we are, the heritage rows. Oldest part of the vineyard, stretches all the way from here down the river over yonder. Noah won’t be far away.”
Me and Nat bailed out of the buggy at the top of a small hill where the track started to turn back on itself with an instruction to ‘follow the rows down into the valley, Noah will be on one of them, plucking leaves.’
* * *
Bloody hell, Mrs Woodleigh was right when she said Noah was going to be a real looker as he got older. I mean, it’s hardly six months since I last saw him but he looks way hotter now. Not that he was an ugly duckling to begin with, but now, well… He’s a good couple of inches taller than I recall, and definitely a touch more muscled, filling out his shirt nicely. Must be the time he spent accompanying Travis to the gym to count his repetitions for him, and the lacrosse with Will of course. Blood thirsty little varmint. Those dark eyes and that cute face.
“Boots?”
“Sorry Nat, just for a second I wasn’t sure if it was Noah.”
Nat grinned and then laser focused his wolf eyes on me as I felt myself begin to blush. He’s going to give me stick about this later.
Noah looked up and smiled as he heard us walking down the row to him, Nat pushing me ahead.
“Hi Noah, you look good, nice trousers.”
I can’t believe I just said that.
“Pants,” corrected Nat with a grin. “Come on Boots, learn the language.”
“Rumble, Nat, rumble.”
Noah just pulled a couple more leaves from round the bunch of grapes he was working on, stood back to check them, then smiled and turned fully towards us. “They’re linen pants, Boots, the shirt too. Good for keeping cool in this sun.”
Nat was still smirking. “Noah’s family were textile people. On your mother’s side, isn’t that right Noah?”
Noah nodded and smiled. Now we were closer I could see his trousers were linen, a kind of oatmeal colour, nicely toning with the pastel shades of the pale, duck-egg blue shirt he was wearing. On his head was a straw hat.
“My dad’s side is coal, Boots. Since the 1800s. Then in the 1950’s we got out of coal and bought land. Vineyards. We have seven now. This is the best.”
I know they do vineyards in California; we can even get Californian wines back in England. My mom loves some of their white wines and dad says it has to be better than French wine just because…But Pennsylvania? Never heard of Pennsylvania wines right up ‘till the moment we turned into the drive up to Noah’s house. Nat never mentioned it. Nobody ever tells me stuff.
“You’ve probably heard of California wines, Boots,” said Nat as if he could read my mind. “Everybody has. The Californians have hyped them up enough. Now don’t get me wrong, there’s an occasional good vintage comes out of California – ain’t that right, Noah? - but for the most part it’s just cheap, sun-forced, mass market stuff for folk who don’t know better. Most of it gets exported. They don’t have the soil. Or the winters.”
Nat turned to face Noah, who simply nodded and shuffled along to the next vine, pulled off a few leaves here, a few leaves there. Nat paused, waited. Noah looked up at Nat, then at me. Then spoke.
“Look at the soil here, Boots. Rough and chalky. Not much moisture or nutrition. We get sub-zero temperatures every winter. Our vines have to fight to survive. Put every ounce of effort into their grapes to make a new generation of plants. Just like in the best regions of France. Then we get hot summers to provide the sugar for alcohol. The soil gives the delicate flavours. We don’t need to export it. We have regular customers in New York City who have orders for more than we can grow. All the top bars and restaurants. Keeps the price high.”
“Can we help?” asked Nat, leaning forward to look at one of the tiny bunches of grapes. “You’d need to show us what to do.”
That’s a good move. Nat always seems to know the right thing to do or say with Noah. I mean, Noah has planned to do the shooting thing on the vines until four, so that’s what he’s going to do even though we’re here now.
Noah nodded. “It’s not hard, Nat. See how all the vines have small bunches of grapes from about waist high to chest high? We call this the fruit zone.”
Nat and me both looked and nodded.
“You just find a bunch of grapes, then pluck away the leaves round it. Let the sun get at them as they grow. Better to pull too many leaves off rather than too few. Like this.”
Noah deftly plucked away most of the leaves from within about six inches of each tiny grape bunch, stood back, then darted in and pulled away a few more. “We need the leaves to convert sunlight to sugar, Boots. But the leaves higher up can do that well enough. Stripping them away lower down, round the grapes, helps control the micro-climate, the humidity. Reduces pests too. Have a go. I’ll supervise you both.”
Nat smiled at me as we both stepped forward and began to pick away the leaves round some of the bunches of grapes. Noah was quick to intervene at first, showing us both exactly what to do, usually taking away an extra leaf here, another one there, making things symmetrical round the grapes. Plenty of space for the sun and breeze to get to them.
“That’s it, Boots, you’ve got it. Nat, you need to take away that leaf too.”
Shooting the vines wasn’t difficult, in fact I quite enjoyed it. The three of working our way down the row, me and Nat updating Noah on all our news, telling him about what we’d been up to for the last few days. My flight over and the helicopter ride over Pittsburgh, the July 4th concert at State Point, sailing the brig on Lake Erie. Then the Oil Museum and Case knife factory tour, not to mention yesterday in Towanda where we hired a canoe to go down the Susquehanna River. Proper Indian style canoe, not racing kayaks like I use back home in the rapids. That was actually Nat’s suggestion. He’s getting into canoeing. Noah just smiled and listened as we worked our way down the row. He didn’t need to say much. He never does. Just an important word when needed. But he hears everything. Remembers it all.
“Looks like we’re done on this row,” said Nat with satisfaction as we reached the bottom of the hill where a small brook trickled by on its way to the river we had seen earlier. “Good enough, Noah?”
Noah gazed back along the row, carefully assessing every vine we had worked on. Deliberating.
“It’ll do,” he said at last. From Noah, that’s pretty much top-level praise. He glanced down at his watch. “Just in time too. I can drive us back to the house, show you your rooms. My car is parked on the track just a few rows along.”
“You have a car, Noah?”
Noah smiled. “Yes, Boots. I’ll be taking it to college with me in the Fall.” He glanced over to Nat. “I finished all the Car Club paperwork and signed up with the police’s ‘Young Driver’ scheme, Nat. Pop is sorting transport and he’s already arranged with Mr Miller that I can take it to him for any servicing we can’t manage at Car Club.”
“What is it, Noah? A Mustang too? So you can race against Nat for real and not just on the console?”
Noah just smiled and led the way towards the grit track that we could now see running alongside the brook and then back up over the hill. Parked in the clearing at the end of the track was a vintage Volkswagen Beetle cabriolet, its chrome trim gleaming in the sunlight. The bodywork was Pacific Blue, with a cream leather interior.
“Wow, Noah, that’s class!”
Noah smiled at me. “You can sit up front with me, Boots. Nat, you can have the back seat. Pop lets me use it on our estate roads. I’ve had it nearly a month. We sourced it from California. Not a mark of rust on it. Didn’t even need a refurbishment.” Noah glanced over at Nat. “I was hoping maybe you could arrange for me to have one of those indoor spaces in the car club building, Nat. Better than leaving it parked outside on the lot in winter.”
Nat didn’t say anything, just smiled. He’s Cadet Seargeant Major now. The first in the entire history of the college. He can definitely sort parking spaces.
I jumped in beside Noah and Nat climbed into the back, lounging across the full width of the rear seat. I love old cars. They’re real. It’s even got a choke button. Not that we’re going to need that in this heat. Noah was going through his checks just like a pilot. Pulled his seatbelt tight. Made sure the handbrake was on. Depressed the brake pedal and clutch to check them out too. Slipped the gears into all settings. Just like dad taught me to do on the Land Rover.
“We’re good, Boots.”
Noah flicked the key and the engine popped into life. That’s what VW Beetles do. They pop. Lemon Steroids roars, the whole car rocking slightly as it reacts to the torque unleashed by that huge engine. The Beetle simply pops. Nat’s engine probably has more power in a single cylinder than this Beetle has in all four, but who cares? This is a different kind of car. I should have known Noah would choose something like this. It’s got a style all of its own.
Noah stirred the cogs and pulled away gently, the engine ‘pop-pop-popping’ along as we accelerated and began to head up the track towards the summit of the hill. Noah expertly changed gear and kept the acceleration smoothly increasing. I mean, it’s not a racing machine, we were barely above walking pace when Noah slipped up into second gear – very smoothly. Noah can drive. I turned and smiled at Nat as he lounged across the rear seat, the breeze flicking his fringe back. Nat looks pretty awesome like that. He doesn’t mind that I’m sat up front with Noah. He’s just relaxing, looking cool, his arm stretched out across the Tonneau cover behind him. This is a day to remember, pootling back along the track, the sun beaming down on us, rows of vines gliding by. Nat smiling at us both.