Grand Opening

The harsh weather was fine by Donald Loomis, professor emeritus of history at SUNY Chenango. The more snow the more he could cross country ski the 10 miles form home to his campus office. Going in was level to downhill and took under an hour without effort. Coming home there were a couple of tiring climbs. He usually took a break after these, enjoyed the view. Most days he took his Nikon with him in case he spotted something interesting. He had a special pouch for it so it wouldn’t freeze up.

Professor, as the locals called him, was following his usual route along the crest on the esker which forms the eastern edge of Loomis Hollow. An overnight snow had left an inch of fresh powder on top of the hard pack, perfect for ski running. He picked up the pace accordingly, elongating his diagonal stride, stretching well forward to plant the pole and pushing off with vigor. It was barely 7am, he could stay out if he wished.

It had been 12 years since Professor Loomis had given a class or had been the advisor to a doctoral candidate, however he still kept the same office hours as ever – Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday 11-12:30. He had been keeping those hours for 39 years. He always kept the door closed. He sat at his desk until someone knocked, hardly moving at all, hands folded on the ink blotter, elbows resting just on the edge of the desk, back straight, shoulders square. He used the time to think about his research, just think. He didn’t like to read or write in his office.

There had been several attempts to get him to give up his office, rather weak attempts since Loomis was a campus celebrity, an affable eccentric. One department chair told him point blank that he had to cede his office to a visiting professor. In response, Loomis locked himself in a stall in the men’s room and proclaimed that he was on a hunger strike. The student newspaper printed a sympathetic article. Loomis opened the door so that they could get a suitable photo on him on the throne.

That edition of the Chenanigan came to the attention of the New York State Historical Society, who considered Loomis to be a state, if not national, treasure, internationally acknowledged to be the ultimate authority on the history of the Delaware and Hudson Canal. The society exercised its influence with SUNY administration in Albany. The department chair was subsequently censured by the SUNY Chenango faculty council for “insensitive administration” and backed off of his directive. Tight as office space was on campus, no one since had bothered Loomis.

Professor was 82 and old fashioned but his equipment was up to date, a fire engine red goretex shell with skull cap, lightweight insulated longjohns, wraparound yellow plastic goggles, basically the same kit that Olympic racers wore. If it weren’t for the white handlebar mustache he might have been taken for one, 6’6’ and long legged, very nearly as lean now as he was at 20.
This morning he was not in a good mood. He had stumbled upon a brood of ring-necked pheasant, a hen with about a dozen juveniles nearly her size, crossing the trail single-file about 50 feet ahead. He was focusing the Nikon when a pair of snowmobiles came roaring into the hollow from Fremerg’s Trail. It would have been one for his birding scrapbook.

“Assholes” he shouted waving his fist, nearly dropping the camera. The word echoed several times but the snowmobilers heard nothing, had not noticed him at all. Professor looked back to where the pheasant had been. There was no trace of them. He wondered what they ate when it was so cold and the snowcover so deep. He’d have to go online after office hours, in the library, an find out.

He put the camera away, slipped his gloves back on and picked up the poles. Assholes. He quick stepped back into a running pace and sprinted all out for the flat quarter mile stretch in front of him. Then the esker turned to the west and the trail made a half mile long descent into the northern end of the hollow. The incline only average one degree over that stretch but Professor had been over it literally thousands of times. He knew exactly where and how to kick for maximum velocity, when to tuck, how to point the skis. He got his speed up to about 20mph and coasted, feeling the wind against his cheeks. For him it was no trickier than walking down a flight of stairs.

As he coasted he saw the Thom farm come into view. There was something different about it. His earliest memories of the farm were from the 1920’s, when Jane’s grandfather and his brothers worked some 2,000 acres of fields. The Thom farm and the Verploenck farm were the pride of Chenango County back then. He could remember the farm in winter from when he started to ski, in the early 30’s. Over the years it had not changed much but today something was different.

When he came out into the flat by the side of the road he saw the sign:
THOM’S
BREAKFAST
6-10
7 days
The sign looked professionally done. Ray Tate had spent a few hours getting it right. He cut a sheet of exterior plywood down to 6x2, painted it white, then very carefully sprayed black paint over a stencil. He planted temporary posts in the frozen ground and attached the sign. After the thaw he’d redo that part. He wanted to add “Jane Thom, proprietor” but Jane didn’t want it to be about her so much as the family. Unlike Veronica she was not going to forget her roots.

Professor popped the bindings of his skis, stepped out of them and walked across the road to investigate. There was an 8x11 piece of paper face down on the ground by the big sign. He reached down and picked it up. It read “GRAND OPENING!.” Evidently it had been scotch taped to the sign and fallen off.

He continued to the house, where another 8x11 had been scotch taped to the inside door. It just read “KNOCK.” Professor did and Ray, who had been watching from the window immediately opened it. Ray had on a semblance of a waiter’s outfit – whitish shirt and black trousers, a black bola tie adding a western touch. Professor had never seen Ray so clean.

“Hello, Ray” said Donald Loomis, smiling warmly, stepping past him to admire the redecorated dining room. Ray stood tongue tied. The last time the professor had spoken to him was after a boyhood incident when he and Skid had pelted the Professor’s car with snowballs. The professor visited Ray’s house that evening, spoke briefly with Ray’s father, used a lot of unfamiliar words. Then the Professor tousled Ray’s hair, smiled at him, and left. Ray wasn’t sure what to make of it but he left the Professor alone after that. They’d honk and wave in passing but they had never had occasion to speak. Now here the Professor was, bigger ‘n shit so to speak, saying hello to him like he was still 8 years old.

The professor walked around the room, looking over the photographs and paintings on the walls. It had been quite some years since he had been to the Thom’s place. Maybe it was at Jane’s wedding reception, which he remembered was Saturday after Johnson was elected (Professor voted for Goldwater). The Professor’s wife was Jane’s first cousin once removed. After their divorce the Professor correctly assumed that he was unwelcome, but no hard feelings on either side. Of all the people in the photographs Jane and her brother were the only ones still alive. Professor took his time at each photo, identifying the people and places in them.

Ray stood still, watched the Professor. Jane heard the wideplank pine floors creaking as Donald Loomis shuffled along the wall, came out of the kitchen to see what was going on.

“Donald! You’re our very first customer – of course I’m not going to charge you.” Jane nearly called him Uncle Donald. Jane was one of the very few on a first name basis with the Professor. Even her brother called Professor. “Ray, show the professor to a table.” She noticed the professor had dripped a lot of snow walking around the room. “And hang the professor’s coat on the coat rack.”

Donald Loomis put up his hands in mock submission. He unzipped his goretex jacket, removed it, and handed it to Ray. “What is this all about, Jane?” Ray all but took the Professor by the elbow to guide him to the table he had chosen, in the corner of the room to the right of the fireplace. Professor eased into his seat. “What is this about, Jane?” he repeated, his tone dismayed. The photographs and paintings had put him in a nostalgic frame of mind, and more sensitive to the troubling notion that the world as he loved it was further away, the Thom farm now a restaurant.

Jane picked up on his mood. “Just a little business on the side, Donald.”

Donald Loomis didn’t know how to interpret that. “You’re not going to sell the place, are you?” He imagined someone moving down from Syracuse or Albany, worse yet up from New York City, maybe even that son of a bitch developer Giardino.

“If the price was right, who knows. You know how it is to farm nowadays. But I’m not expecting to. You just don’t worry about that and tell Ray what you’d like for breakfast.”
Jane walked back into the kitchen.

Ray stood waiting for the Professor’s order. Professor had already had his breakfast but didn’t wish to disappoint Jane so he ordered scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee. Ray went into the kitchen and gave Jane the order. Jane poured out the coffee, put it on a tray with some cream and sugar, gave it to Ray, telling him en passant to mop up the wet spots.

Ray picked up the tray by the edge with his left, slipped his right hand underneath it and hoisted it over his shoulder like a Parisian waiter, strode out into the dining room with a full forty, his first – something. His third stride caught a nail that the floor sander had worked loose, causing Ray to lose his balance and fall to his left, arm still in the air, keeping the tray level enough to keep the cream and sugar from spilling, but the coffee cup came toppling forward out of the saucer, over the edge and down on the floor.

“Didn’t break nothing.” Ray exulted, looking up at the professor, tray still poised. He got up and set the cream and sugar on the Professor’s table. “I’ll get you another coffee.”

Jane came out to see what the commotion was and redirected Ray to the mop and bucket, served the coffee while Ray cleaned. She went back to the kitchen to fix the eggs. Ray mopped up the floor and took a rag to finish drying it up. He wash his hands and went over to the Professor’s table, leaned palms down on it and looked the Professor in the eye and smiled. “How is everything so far?” He had practiced that over and over last night to get the tone just the right kind of friendly, and so that he didn’t feel phony when he smiled, which he did anyway.

“Fine, Ray, fine” said Professor, having indeed nothing to complain about.

Jane dinged the bell but Ray had forgotten about that semaphor. She let 15 seconds pass and dinged again, then after another 15 seconds yelled through the kitchen door for Ray to come get the professor’s order.

“Your order will be right up” chirped Ray, thinking ‘2 for 2’ and he strode off to fetch the order. He returned immediately, set out a large plate with 3 scrambled eggs, two slices of toast, and 2 rashers of woodchuck bacon. Professor thanked Ray and tried a small forkful of egg. They were worth the wait. The hens had been laying that winter, thanks to Jose. Jane couldn’t figure out what he was doing differently. The professor’s scramble had been laid that morning. Jane had made a quick trip to the coop while the professor had his coffee.

Ray stood by the table and watched the professor eat, uncertain of what else to do. The professor kept his head bowed so that he wouldn’t have to look at Ray. Jane came back out and motioned Ray away. The professor checked his watch and decided to stay a bit longer. He got some reading material out of his backpack, set it so that he could read while he worked at his food. He managed most of his eggs but left most of the bacon. Not that he had a problem with woodchuck. He had already had breakfast. He did not like to overeat. He felt pleasantly stuffed, still able to ski at a good pace the rest of the way to campus.

Professor’s attention returned to the dining room itself. There were five tables for four, all the same, butcher block pine with a golden maple stain, three feet square. The chairs were maple with the same stain, broad and sturdy with spoked backs. The room was about 20 by 15, large enough for twice as many tables. Professor pondered table arrangements for a few moments, until Ray came and offered more coffee. Professor hesitated, then accepted. He looked around at the photographs and paintings. One large portrait caught his eye, a young woman who had unmistakably Thom traits – dark hair, wide set hazel eyes, high cheekbones, squarish jaw with a slight dimple.

The woman wore dark clothing, sat on an Eastlake rocker in a dark room. Her face was bright and vivacious. The Professor guessed from the outfit, hairstyle, and furniture that the portrait was done in the 1850’s, and estimated the woman to be in her thirties. He knew the Thom family tree going back 200 years. He tried to remember the names of the females born between 1820 and 1830, came up empty. He would have to look in his files after office hours. He had genealogical records on all the families who had settled Chenango and Delaware counties in the 50 years after the revolution.

Ray came out and added a log to the fire, offered more coffee, which was declined.

Professor looked at his watch again, just past 9am. He decided to stay until 9:30. Maybe the name would come to him. He could ask Jane, but no fun in that. He still had a half cup of coffee to nurse. He went back to his reading. The log in the fireplace hissed and spit. The air became very slightly, pleasingly smoky. The snow was picking up outside, the wind echoing into the chimney.

The Thom farm was also on the route that David Prendergast drove to campus. His place was a good five miles south, down on Route 369, about a mile north of US 7. He was on his way in to the monthly art department meeting when he noticed the sign. David had been living there since 1977 and not much had changed, same farms and only a couple of new homes. Indeed there were no commercial or industrial buildings until much closer to Susquehanna, no billboards at all, just country roads, which was what David wanted.

David slowed to read the sign then stopped by the driveway, debating whether or not to go in. He had never stopped in at any of the farms. There was one that sold honey, but he didn’t care for honey. There had to be 20 farms along the 15 mile route he drove. He had sketched and painted all of them. He particularly liked the massive catalpa tree in the front yard of the Thom place, 7 feet in diameter and at least 70 feet tall. He had painted several perspectives of it and the farm. Once when he had his easel set up on the shoulder of the road out it front, Jane and Jose had come out and admired his brushwork. That was one of his favorites from his Chenango Landscapes show, now in the permanent collection of a museum in Osaka.
David pulled into the driveway and parked a couple of feet from the catalpa. There were no other cars nor any evidence of tire tracks, no indication of where or how to park. The wind was blowing steadily from the west at about 10 miles an hour. Another couple of inches overnight and it was still falling. The weather was still stuck in the deep freeze, about 0, probably below. That was cool in January and February but now, after forty something days of it, it was getting tiresome, and the Arts Festival was coming up.

David entered the dining room and stomped the snow off his boots, stuffed his hat and gloves into the pockets of his down jacket and hung it up. Ray showed him to the table next to the Professor, on the other side of the fireplace. Donald Loomis looked up and nodded hello without much of a smile. He had never met David but something about him was annoying. Professor knew his reputation – diva, narcissist, egocentric, eccentric, none of these bad qualities in Professors estimation, and, unfortunately, the darling of the administration, which was a horse of another color.

Before David joined the faculty SUNY Chenango had been an agricultural school with roots in the CCC days. Donald Loomis joined the faculty in 1952 when it was still known as Susquehanna A&M. Over the 1970’s he witnessed many disagreeable changes in the school. Too many old friends and colleagues were pushed into retirement or forced to take jobs at other schools, making room for upstarts like David with fanciful artsy programs catering to brats from Long Island and New York City.

David’s vision was to create something like Black Mountain College. He pitched the idea to the SUNY Chancellor at a dinner party in 1972. The Chancellor was well known collector and receptive to the idea but cautioned David that he was not, despite popular opinion, a dictator. David pestered the Chancellor about it for two years. The Chancellor didn’t think it would work, but had an enrollment problem at SUNY Chenango to fix. He closed down the agriculture department at Chenango in June of 1975, transferred its faculty and staff to Cobleskill. In July of 1977 renovations of the former agriculture school campus were completed and in September Susquehanna Hills Academy held its first classes.

Donald Loomis glared at David, thinking of those terrible years. David took pains to seem unaware. Ray came over with coffee, asked him what he’d like for breakfast. David sipped it, relieved to have a focal point in the opposite direction from Donald Loomis. David certainly knew all about “The Relic”, and had a pretty good idea why he was glaring at him.

“Can I see the menu?”

“We don’t have a menu, but Jane can make whatever you want, eggs, pancakes, waffle.”

David ordered the scrambled eggs and toast.

“Really? That’s the same as Professor ordered.”

David couldn’t help but follow Ray’s eyes and look at the Professor, who had resumed reading. It was 9:33 but he wasn’t leaving just yet. David pondered for a second and raised his hand to catch Ray “and some bacon, too.”

Ray thanked him and went in the kitchen, came right back out.
“We’re out of regular bacon. Got woodchuck bacon though.”

“Woodchuck bacon!”

“It’s good, not quite as soft but just as tasty, especially Jane’s. She’ll make it real crisp if you like.”

“OK, I guess” said David. If it was gross he’d just leave it.

Ray went off to the kitchen. While he was there Donald Loomis slipped into his goretex jacket and left. He crossed the road to his skis, stepped into the bindings and started off to school. In his wake David detected a fart. He got up and stood by the fire to escape it, warmed his hands.

Jane came out of the kitchen to personally deliver the breakfast to the artist guy. She was ashamed that after more than 20 years she didn’t know his name, had barely spoken with him. She had seen him out painting or sketching often enough. All she had to do was just strike up a conversation but she never did, unless he was by her place. He lived up a long, long driveway on a hill down towards Route 7, never mowed his lawn, 300 yards of weeds and wildflowers all the way down the driveway to the road. He had two houses, not one. Everyone wondered what he needed two houses for.

“Howdy” Jane said, putting the food in front of him. “Jane Thom”

David stood up, extended his hand. “David Prendergast. Glad to finally meet you.”

Jane beamed at him, feeling foolish, like she was at a high school dance or something. David was older than she thought, maybe older than her 50, but he was cute, and made her feel relaxed, which kind of made her nervous.

“Your food is going to get cold” she said to fend off the urge to just stand there and flirt with him.

David smiled and sat back down, cut off a piece of bacon and some egg and gracefully shoveled it into his mouth.

“So tell me about woodchuck bacon.”

“What do you mean?” Jane’s voice trailed off into a giggle. She had the sensation of watching herself make a fool of herself.

“I mean tell me how you make woodchuck bacon. Do you buy it at a store or what?”

“Oh no! That’s from chucks I shot last September. Some of them I made stew with and some I made some bacon.”

“You hunt woodchuck?”
“Uh uh. They just raid my garden, especially the tomatoes. Only way to get rid of them is to shoot them.”

David took another bite. There really wasn’t much difference. The chuck bacon had an oily afteraste.

“It’s good” he pronounced. Jane nodded her approval and retreated back to the kitchen before she did something else foolish. She told Ray to collect $2.50 from David when he was all done.

David left at 10:15, after his third coffee. Ray took the knock sign off the front door and replaced it with a sign reading “CLOSED.” He’d fix up better signs for tomorrow. Their first day of operation was in the books. Two customers. Gross revenue $2.50.

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