Michael Casella

Excerpt from first meeting of two main characters including the protagonist. Sets tone and setting.

He was immediately struck by the air, clean and sweet, scented with what he didn’t know to be bush honeysuckle. There was a light rush of wind through newly budding trees, and he could hear the crackle of squirrel claws as the small animals scurried up the course bark of a nearby elm. A few weathered pinecones lay beneath a tree to one side of the road and capless acorns lay like loose bronzed pearls beneath an oak farther up on the other.

His perceptions of his surroundings were stark and pure, and he could feel them to his core, an effect the city had never delivered. The landscape appeared to have been gently ladled into place by the hands of Providence while the skyline of Manhattan, the countless concrete monoliths he was so used to seeing, now seemed as though they had been jammed angrily into the ground. Merrill felt a foreign, yet benign sensation guarded with a quiet that was deafening. Raising his closed eyes toward the sky, he breathed deeply. His lungs took in the chill of the air, the sun not yet clearing the tree lines, and he drew an odd strength from it. Knowing there was no one living between him and the paved state road below, he began a slow climb up the gravel lane. Old Cricket would not be The Road Not Taken.  

About a quarter mile up the lane, he could see breaches in the tree lines to both sides of the road, where singular rays of the sun cut through the space of the openings. He hoped the gaps made way for a house or some other structure with electricity. As he cleared the greenery, his gaze was drawn to the right. The Windmill Hill Ridgeline, a series of small peaks 16 miles long, stretched out before him. His breaths shortened as the beat of his heart grew faster. It was more than his senses could take in, and his eyes become glassed with a thin veil of involuntary tears. It’s just so beautiful.

Merrill wiped his eyes on a jacket sleeve and turned around to see Albert on his front porch, rocking slowly in his chair. A dog of medium build and questionable lineage, graying about the snout, lay at the edge of the porch, his paws overhanging the top step. The old man appeared stout, healthy and alert, sitting erect without any sign of frailty about him. His large right hand surrounded a coffee mug which rested on one of the chair’s wide arms. He wore overalls faded by use rather than any house of fashion, and beneath them was a pale flannel plaid jersey covering an undershirt that hung loosely about his neck. Albert nodded his head in the young man's direction, momentarily shading his eyes with the worn brim of his Southern States cap.

Albert saw a fit young man in his early 20s, just shy of six feet with a backbone straight enough to lend him another inch or two in appearance. His hair was cut short and chestnut in color, his searching eyes a similar hue. He wore pleated pants and a collared shirt beneath a waist−length jacket. The boy looked like money to Albert and seemed certain of himself, but intent and a far cry from cocky.

Merrill began a cautionary approach toward Albert’s front porch, as wary of the old man as he was his dog. Neither moved save for a feeble wag of the canine’s tail.

“Good morning, sir,” Merrill said in a supplicative tone.

Albert nodded again. Friend or foe, he had always believed you could learn more about either the less you said. Merrill gave the dog an anxious look.

“Don’t worry about him,” said Albert. “He’s old, and there isn’t much that excites him anymore. Only barks at night when he can’t make out something that’s moving outside.”

Merrill felt more at ease. “My car died just down the road, and I was wondering if I could use your phone to call AAA.”

“Don't have one," Albert responded.

“Really,” said an astonished Merrill. “How do you live without a phone?”

“Well, I’m sitting here breathing and enjoying my coffee, so I seem to be doing okay without one.”

Merrill couldn't argue with that and climbed the first few stairs of the porch. The dog sat back, up on his haunches, and Merrill gave his head a rub.

“What’s his name?”

“Silas,” answered Albert.

Merrill nodded slowly, remembering the name from somewhere.

“My wife passed away a few years ago, and my two sons thought it would be a good idea if I got another dog. The one we had when they were growing up died, and I couldn’t see getting another one with them so close to leaving home, but I’d got used to having one around, so I went to the shelter down in Northfield and picked up this guy.”

“Is there a reason you named him Silas?”

“Well, in a book I read once, a man named Silas Marner gets accused of stealing something and goes off to live by himself, but he wasn’t happy about it. A little kid shows up at his door, Silas adopts him and kinda feels reborn. My dog here looked pretty sad when I saw him in the pound, and I thought we just might help each other get a new start. Think it was something we both needed to do.”

Merrill smiled at Albert and Silas as much as Albert’s telling of the story.

“Now I remember that book. Read it in junior high school, I think. Merrill scanned the porch nervously. “Well if you don’t have a phone, I was wondering if I could plug mine into an outlet here on your porch just long enough so I could call for some help.”

“Son, you ever ask a question you haven't wondered about first?”

“Excuse me?” Merrill answered skeptically.

“Well, the only two questions you asked so far you had to wonder about asking” Just ask your question or state your mind. No need to wonder about it. Wondering about an answer isn't going to change it.” Albert’s tone was calm and constructive, not intolerant, and that's just the way it struck Merrill.

“If I can just use an outlet on your porch here for half an hour or so, I should be able to get enough of a charge, and I'll be out of your hair.”

Albert smiled broadly as he removed his cap revealing small tufts of gray to either side of his weathered head. “Not a lot of hair left here to get out of. Besides, I don't have any outlets on the porch. Never saw the need for ‘em. I come out here to get away from anything that needs juice, but there's an outlet inside the front door there, just to your right. Help yerself.”

Meryl climbed up onto the porch, a few of its floorboards creaking beneath his feet, and extended his right hand. “I'm Merrill Ryan, sir. Good to meet you."

Albert stood from the chair using only his legs. He grasped the hand firmly, the strength in Albert’s taking Merrill by surprise. He returned the same firm grip, sealing the introduction. “Albut Hull’s my name. Likewise.”  Albert felt good about the resolve he sensed in the young man's clench.

Merrill opened the front door gingerly and found the outlet. Before plugging in his phone, he looked about the room. The long low-slung hi-fi, RCA TV with its bulbous screen, and an array of furniture reminded him of a display he'd once seen at the Smithsonian − the room felt like a time capsule. There were a few current newspapers on an end table next to the outlet, a copy of the Brattleboro Reformer at the top of it.  But he noticed the word Times in a familiar font printed on a page sticking out from under the local paper. He lifted the Reformer to reveal a copy of the Sunday New York Times opened to the International page. The old man and his newspapers didn’t seem to add up. Merrill tapped the outlet, plugged into the USB port of his phone, and returned to the porch.

“Have a seat,” Albert said. “There's a pot of coffee on the stove if you want some.”

“No, thank you. I had a few cups on the way up from New York this morning, and I'm still a little wired. Your name, Albut, is that a local name?”

“Been ‘round as long as I can rememba,” Albert replied.

“Never heard it before.”

“You telling me you neva heard of Albut Einstein or Albut Schweitzer?

“Oh, Albert,” Merrill responded with a smile. He didn’t realize “r’s” were syphoned off from the speech of many Vermonters, converted to “ah’s” and shipped down to Boston where people made better use of them “pahhking” their cahhs” in yahhds.”

“That name Merrill, where did that come from?” inquired Albert.

“It was my grandfather's middle name. I guess it was just a matter of time before someone in the family had to make use of it again, and it found its way to me. Most people call me Merle.”

Albert was grateful for the brevity of the answer − nothing bored him more than lengthy genealogies. “There's a whole bunch of Ryans down near Colraine, but you being from New York, I guess they're not any relation.

“Not that I know of,” Merrill replied, almost apologetically. “It sure is beautiful here − the mountains, trees, the air − it's nothing I'm used to."

“Well, that's the secret, Merle. You should never get used to beauty. Soon as you do nothing’s so beautiful anymore.” Merrill nodded his head in agreement, their mutual respect firmly established.

The two sat silently for a few moments, Albert still enjoying the new day and Merrill letting the sage words of the old man sink in.

“Don't you worry about not having a phone? I mean, if you needed help, how would you get in contact with anyone?”

“Air horn,” said Albert.

“Sorry?” Merrill replied.

“I got a couple of ‘em around the house and in the barn, and I got neighbors just up the road. Somebody in one of those houses is always around, and the best neighbors are the ones you know are there but can't see. Keeps everybody friendly and just helpful enough.” Merrill thought about his own neighbors on the upper East Side of Manhattan, none of whom he knew other than by sight, certainly none he’d rely upon for help. People in the city tended to record developing trouble on their phones and only offered help when they felt comfortably clear of any liability.

“I figure I can get to an air horn just as quick as a phone, and air horns don't bother you like phones. It's one-way calling if you know what I mean.”

“I do. I do,” Merrill smiled. “Some days I just want to throw mine out of the window.”

There was another long pause in the conversation as the two pondered the shortcomings of modern communication. Merrill had never given it much thought until now, the convenience of connection between people only serving to keep them further apart. To him, cell phones were just a part of life, but Albert didn't think so, and he hadn't been wrong about much so far.

“So, the name Hull, do you have any connection with the conference center I assume is up the road?”

“The mountain here is named after my family, but no, that mess up there was my brother Artha's brainchild.” (Another “r” converted to an “ah” and on its way to Boston.)  He sold his piece of the mountain about 15 years ago and headed for Florida, Naples I think. We don't talk much anymore. Seems he can't hear my air horn from down there."

Merrill laughed. “So, your family owned this whole mountain?”

“I think it was about 1825, some grandfather of mine, I forget how many greats are in front of it anymore, had it in his head that if this area was to grow, it was going to need lumber. He bought this mountain, all 2400 acres of it, for a song, though nobody in the family ever knew what the tune cost him. He was a smart man, and most of the houses down in Brattleboro and around Putney here were built with lumber off this mountain. It was old growth, some of those trees dense as stone, not the crap you get in those big box stores these days. Aren't many of those houses still around though. When enough of the land was cleared, the family started farming, mostly corn and cows. They live real good off each other, ya know. Seems like God's first try at recycling.”

 

Responses: Lesson 1

 

Story Statement

Merrill Ryan is an undergraduate student at NYU, born into privilege, whose father has insisted on his pursuing a career in business while his own preference and talent lay in writing. Unknown to his parents, he attends a writers’ conference in Vermont where, when his car breaks down, he meets a 76-year-old farmer, Albert Hull.

After having spent his entire life in Manhattan, Merrill is introduced by Albert to a way of life that is simple by natural design. Albert’s Door is the portal through which Merrill finds his own path to a life worth living, where he feels both rich and satisfied, and neither has anything to do with money. It is an existence reduced to the most basic of necessities, the greatest of which is friendship.

Merrill must confront his father who has spent 20 years planning his son’s future, working countless hours with that single goal in mind, but he never took the time to see just who Merrill was. His son’s wish to relocate and finish school in Vermont is interpreted as an opportunity lost, while to Merrill, it is an opportunity found.

 

Antagonist

Both Merrill’s parents serve as antagonists in the story, though Merrill’s father takes the lead. He is as much the product of his time as his father was, as so many fathers have been, dating back to the industrial revolution.

He is intent on Merrill’s meeting his educational obligations though there had never been any negotiation, much less discussion about them. He considers Merrill’s future in business a pathway he has cleared through his own hard work and determination.

He leads a life meeting obligations and deadlines, and while adept at his job as a money manager, he lives in fear of failure as so many modern men do. Unfortunately, he has been so preoccupied with responsibilities and commitments, he has failed to recognize the individual talents and needs of his children, Merrill’s in particular.

 

 

 

Breakout Title

Albert’s Door

The Meek Shall Inherit

Growing Good

 

Comparables

Fathers and Sons

The Lincoln Highway

 

This is a tough one, and it is my hope that the breadth of reading experience among the group and its instructors can help. I haven’t read nor have I been able to find fiction with similar conflicts as those found in “Albert’s Door” that are set in a period after the 1950’s. “Fathers and Sons” does deal with the challenges between generations, but it takes place in 1860’s Russia. I only mention “The Lincoln Highway” because it is a coming-of-age story. I feel my protagonist, Merrill, is an older version of Billy Watson, a younger protagonist in Amor Towles novel who still believes there is magic in the world. Merrill is in a quest to find it.

 

Log Line

A privileged but introverted college student, having grown up in Manhattan, attends a writers conference in southern Vermont where he meets a 76 year old farmer who reveals the true meaning of wealth.

 

Inner Conflict

The inner conflict of the protagonist in “Albert’s Door” involves one of decision, to maintain his present course fulfilling his parent’s vision of his future, or strike out in another direction, one that would make him happy but which he’s certain they won’t understand or agree to.

 

 

Excerpts:

            “You’re probably right. I don’t have many friends in New York. Don’t date much either. It feels like one big popularity contest to me. Students in my business classes look like they’ve got an office on Wall Street waiting for them, always dressed to the nines and acting superior to everyone else. They’re always trying to get ahead by putting each other down, yet they call themselves friends. From what I can see, I mean if my dad’s career is any indication, it just goes on and on. I don’t want to spend my life like that.”

 

 “Tell me about your mom.”

            “She’s a good woman, maybe a little preoccupied with what other people think about her and the family, though. My dad calls her a social butterfly with all the groups she belongs to. I still live at home while I’m in college, but we pretty much lead separate lives.”

            “Does she listen to you?”

            “Sorry?” replied Merrill.

            “Does she listen to what you have to say ‘bout things, your opinions? Your dad seems to have a mind about what your future should be, and I know from experience, dads can be like that. My sons and me, we had differences of opinion on that subject, believe me. It took me too long to learn their lives were their own. Strange how fathers don’t realize that sometimes till they’ve put too much distance between them and their sons.” There was an uncomfortable moment of reflection for both, each considering the other’s point of view. “But like I asked, “Does your mom listen to you when you talk?”

            Merrill put his sandwich down and sat back in his chair. He scanned the people moving about the store as he pondered Albert’s question. “Now that you mention it, I think she listens, but I’m not sure she hears me. She likes to tell me how I should feel about things, and it’s when I feel differently than her that I don’t think she hears me.”

 

Setting

The story takes place in and around the town of Putney, Vermont, a small township located in the southern part of the state. Nature is a theme throughout the novel from which the protagonist, Merrill, learns many lessons, most of which are taught by Albert, the old farmer. It is the uncomplicated synergy of nature and the respect the local people have for it that captures Merrill’s intellect as much as his heart.

 

The climax of the novel takes place in the protagonist’s parents house on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.

 

Excerpt:

He was immediately struck by the air, clean and sweet, scented with what he didn’t know to be bush honeysuckle. There was a light rush of wind through newly budding tree branches, and he could hear the crackle of squirrel claws as the small animals scurried up the course bark of a nearby elm. A few weathered pinecones lay beneath a tree to one side of the road and capless acorns lay like loose bronzed pearls beneath an oak on the other.

His perceptions of his surroundings were stark and pure. He could feel them to his core, an effect the city had never delivered. The landscape appeared to have been gently ladled into place by the hands of Providence while the skyline of Manhattan, the countless concrete monoliths he was so used to seeing, now seemed as though they had been jammed angrily into the ground. He felt a foreign, yet benign sensation guarded with a quiet that was deafening. Raising his closed eyes toward the sky, he breathed deeply. His lungs took in the chill of the air, the sun not yet clearing the tree lines, and he drew an odd strength from it. Knowing there was no one living between him and the paved state road below, Merrill began a slow climb up the gravel lane. Old Cricket would not be The Road Not Taken. 

About a quarter mile up the lane, he could see breaches in the tree lines to both sides of the road, where singular rays of the sun cut through the space of the openings. He hoped the gaps made way for a house or some other structure with electricity. As he cleared the greenery, his gaze was drawn to the right. The Windmill Hill Ridgeline, a series of small peaks 16 miles long, stretched out before him. His breaths shortened as the beat of his heart grew faster. It was more than his senses could take in, and his eyes become glassed with a thin veil of involuntary tears.