Centuries of Aprils
By the end of March, the cold weather had receded. The mornings were pleasantly
cool, not cold. I heat my home entirely with a wood-burning stove and had had enough
firewood to make it through El Paso’s coldest winter in memory. Now the firewood pile was
depleted. As I glanced through The Thrifty Nickel, I spotted an ad offering firewood for sale.
Thinking that I could stock up wood for next winter, I called the number and got directions from
man with a strange accent. He mentioned a location on Alameda Avenue and garbled
something about a trailer park, railroad tracks, and a gate. Figuring that I could find the place, I
didn’t ask him to repeat.
The next morning was the first day of April, a day I had longed for. Spring was here at
last. Soon blades of grass would pop out of the dry grey ground. Soon my goats would be
nibbling an endless salad, courtesy of Mother Nature. I looked at the address I had written
down the evening before—Alameda, 7100 block. That must be close to Hidden Valley, I
thought. I got into my truck and drove up Alameda, past junkyards, restaurants, bars, schools,
churches, apartment buildings, car lots, convenience stores, and more.
Finally, I arrived at the correct block. I found the trailer park and turned into it. I drove
slowly between trailer houses. Some had toys strewn about. One had a makeshift basketball
hoop. Another had a barbeque grill. Leaving the trailers behind, I drove over the railroad tracks
and spotted the gate. It looked out of place, too elegant. It was made of wrought iron with
sweeping scrolls, like question marks, and arrows pointing toward a mystery. Since it was too
narrow to enter with the truck, I parked, grabbed my gloves, locked the truck, and walked
through the gate. What had he said? Follow the path, then wood.
The path was inviting. It was lined by fragrant trees. The farther I went down the path,
the greener the vegetation became. I wondered how April had accelerated its effect in this one
spot. Small birds sang delightful melodies from the branches. Spring flowers, white and red,
had sprung up along the path. I ambled on, already lost in time. A gentle breeze out of the
west inspired me to venture farther. I was in an enchanted forest, which eventually opened
onto a green meadow. The path continued through the meadow to a dirt road, where horses
had recently passed. Cresting a hill, I was surprised to see an antique village in the distance.
Just then a wagon pulled by a horse drew near me on the road. The horse jingled the
harnesses when it came to a stop next to me. The rustic fellow driving the wagon asked me if I
wanted a ride. The wagon was full of firewood.
“Sure,” I said. “Where are you heading?”
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“Over yonder, to deliver this firewood to a gentleman of the village,” he replied.
The driver was dressed like a character out of Robin Hood. He wore a sleeveless leather
jacket over a white shirt and grey pants, all showing wear, tear, and repair. He wore simple
leather boots. His face was suntanned, rough, but amiable. As he talked and we got closer to
the village, I began to imagine that we were in Merry Old England. The village was made up of
scattered houses separated by enclosed fields. The fences were made of rough-hewn boards
weathered to reveal deep grains. The houses were constructed of flat stones from ground level
to mid-wall. The upper portions of the walls were built of timber with exposed boards
separating sections that were plastered white. Layers of thick thatch covered pitched roofs. In
one of the pastures, I saw a flock of sheep watched over by an Old English sheepdog. Accepting
my experience as a gift from the gods, I decided to enjoy it rather than wonder if it was even
possible.
The horse pulled the wagon down a lane until we arrived at a particularly wellstructured house. We pulled up next to a depleted pile of firewood. My rustic friend began to
unload the stove-cut lengths of split oak. I put on my blue work-gloves and helped unload and
stack the firewood. When we were done unloading the wagon, the gentleman of the home
stepped out and admired the neat stack of firewood.
The gentleman was a plump fellow with a forked silver beard. He wore a cloth on his
head, buttoned at the back, and a large flowing robe that reached to his ankles. The sleeves
were embroidered. His shoes were square in front with a single strap and simple buckle. He
had a ruddy complexion, suggesting an enjoyment of wine. His eyes twinkled with an
inquisitive and mischievous sparkle. His fingers were stained with ink.
“Master Chaucer,” the woodcutter said, “Here is your load of oak.”
“Marvelous, and here is your twenty shillings along with my hearty gratitude. Who is
your helper?”
“Gonzago,” I replied, wondering if this could be the Father of English Literature. “Might
I have a word with you, Master Chaucer?”
“For sooth,” he exclaimed, “You speak an odd version of the King’s English. But, of
course, join me in my study.”
The woodcutter announced that he had some business in the village before setting
back. He offered me a ride to the edge of the woods, saying that he would return in a couple of
hours. I thanked him and followed Master Chaucer through a budding garden back to his
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house. We entered his study, a room strewn with manuscripts, bundles of parchment, bottles
of ink, and a sheaf of goose quills. They were piled on tables, benches, and even the window
sill. Chaucer cleared a bench and offered me a seat. Light filtered through a stained glass
window featuring a dove with spread wings. As Chaucer arranged things in the study, I noticed
that he had a cord about his neck from which hung a penknife. I figured he used it to sharpen
the quills.
Chaucer handed me a book of numerology and explained that he had been
experimenting with magical numbers. He wondered if they meant anything to me. In
amazement I saw the numbers 2011 and 88029497, my EPCC ID number. I informed him of the
connection. He nodded in satisfaction.
I told him that I was from a land beyond the known seas. I told him that I was a teacher
from six hundred and thirty years in the future. What is more, I told him that we studied his
writings in our time.
“Art thou a clerk?” he questioned.
“Yes,” I replied and launched into a recital of “Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote /
The drought of March hath perced to the roote.”
The Father of English Literature laughed, amused by my West Texas rendition of his
lines. Still he was gratified that his works had survived the test of time. He asked me to go on.
I got all the way to the description of the Knight, being careful to pronounce the K. Chaucer
was curious to know why my English was so odd compared to his. I told him that his works had
survived as masterpieces of Middle English, that English had continued to change after his time
for another two hundred years when it had finally stabilized largely because of another great
English writer, William Shakespeare, son of a glover. Chaucer laughed again, explaining that his
family had been shoemakers, adding that the word chaucer meant shoemaker. He was proud
that descendants of shoemakers and glovers had made their marks on history.
Chaucer glanced up at a crucifix on the wall and made the sign of the cross. He
sheepishly wondered about the reception of the fabliaux in The Canterbury Tales. Did we in our
time view him as a purveyor of lewd stories? I assured him that all his stories, whether of
knightly deeds or knavish misadventures, were all cherished. They were time capsules, giving
us an inside view of people in his time. Honestly, I revealed that mankind had not evolved
much and that we could still see ourselves—the good, the bad, and the ugly—reflected in his
works.
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Chaucer was curious about the future. I told him about the invention of the printing
press and its effect on literacy, making it possible for people of all walks of life to enjoy his
works. When I told him about computers, he looked confused, so I switched topics.
“Did you really go on that pilgrimage?” I asked.
“Several times,” he said, but explained that many of the pilgrims were people he had
met at different times in his life. “The Prioress was just a nun, not actually the prioress, at a
convent where I served as an altar-boy in my youth. The Man of Law was a lawyer who
swindled me out of a good clunk of money when I sold my house in London before moving here
to Hidden Valley, where I can live quietly and concentrate on my writing.”
“Was the Wife of Bath really a person?” I asked.
“Yes, indeed, her third husband was an acquaintance of mine, poor fellow. And the
plowman is the fine woodcutter who gave you a ride. I can always depend on him to bring me
fuel full thriftily that we may roste, bake, and frye.”
We had a wonderful time talking about the pilgrims. I wanted to know who would win
the contest of telling the best tale.
“Well, read the return trip,” he said.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the return trip had never been written.
Mumbling an excuse, I ventured to suggest “The Knight’s Tale” as a likely contender for best
tale.
“Why, yes,” he said, “That has always been one of my favorites.”
The hour at which the woodcutter had promised to return was drawing near. I reached
into my pocket and took out the Pilot V ball extra fine pen I had with me. I offered it to him,
saying that it was a writing instrument from our era. He held it in his hands, wondering what to
do with it. I showed him how to remove the cap and wrote, “Here beginneth the tales of
Canterbury” on a sheet of parchment. Delighted, he rummaged through a box on his desk and
gave me a penknife on a cord, demonstrating how he used it to sharpen a quill.
Just then the jingling of a harness announced my ride back to the future. I told my host
how much I had enjoyed our visit and that I would share our conversation with my British
Literature class. He offered me and my students his blessing and led me out to where the
wagon stood ready.
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I climbed up on the wagon. The woodcutter and I began our leisurely ride back to the
edge of the woods. When it was time for me to get down, I handed him my blue mechanic’s
gloves with the words Western Safety emblazoned on them. He accepted them graciously and
bid me farewell. I jumped down from the wagon.
Finding the path through the enchanted forest, I threaded my way back through
centuries of Aprils past, enjoying the birdsongs and spring flowers once again. Stepping
through the wrought iron gate, I saw my truck parked next to the railroad tracks. A
tumbleweed was lodged against it. Unlocking the truck, I got in, not glancing back at the gate in
time, which I supposed would no longer be there, preferring to recall the pleasant visit with
Geoffrey Chaucer, whose antique penknife still hung on a lass around my neck.
James Gonzales, April 4, 2011
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