The Later Journeys - 4: Early Explorations
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November 10, 2030, 11:00 p.m.
This appears to be my optimal writing time. I’m not “plumb tuckered out,” as my grandmother would have put it, and Dr. Franklin has retired to his room.
Well, we’ve gotten through about 3 entire days with the good doctor.
Shortly after we had first met and defined our mission, Warren, Trevor and I, as well as Gerry, had resolved to use the title that Franklin preferred. He was without a doubt one of the leading polymaths in history, putting most modern-day “geniuses” to shame, despite a formal education that only went through the second grade -- along with substantial honorary degrees. All three of us were Ph.Ds, and yet I think I can speak for everyone in saying we felt just a little awkward claiming the title for ourselves in light of Franklin’s accomplishments. But fortunately, we knew he was far too polite and well-bred ever to point that out.
Anyway... here’s where we are. The convenient appliances and comfortable duds are within shouting distance.
We explained (to the best of our ability; we scarcely understand it ourselves) about time travel and how we had partially achieved it. We tried to de-emphasize the “partially” part. Sooner or later, BF is going to glom onto the fact that he will never see the 18th century or his friends or family again. Some iteration of him will, as we can see from unchanged encyclopedia entries. Sooner or later, the term “clone” will enter the conversation, because that’s the closest we can come to describing how Benjamin Franklin can exist separately yet simultaneously in two centuries, more than 300 years apart.
But for now, we just want him to stay alive and healthy and to enjoy a mutual learning experience with us.
He didn’t seem the least bit upset about any of what we told him. I have a strong feeling that he simply doesn’t believe it. He probably thinks he’s dreaming or something. He simply listens, appears to accept what he hears, and asks reasonable questions. He doesn’t protest, doesn’t say it’s not possible. From what we’ve read, he was (is) a deist, not an unbeliever, very open to a wide variety of philosophies but still quite grounded in conventional Christian theism. So I can envision him at night, kneeling by his bed, getting in touch with his Creator and humbly asking for protection, guidance and whatever else he might need on this strange but fascinating journey.
He even demonstrated the same calm acceptance when we told him that our year (the year he’d unexpectedly entered into in the blink of an eye) is 2030. Two thousand thirty. Three hundred twenty-four years after he was born. Yes, we told him, geographically he was still in southern New Jersey. Looking out the windows, as he did, wandering about the 2-acre farm, as he did, he felt comfortable with familiar surroundings. We told him that the land had been preserved carefully not to reflect the changes wrought over the centuries.
But there was one change we could not hide, and it embarrassed us more than we could articulate.
The first time we went out that morning, he walked some distance from the house (and the outhouse), sniffed the air and politely commented that he thought the barn and stables might need cleaning. “There’s an odor in the air,” he said “and it seems to follow one, no matter how far I may go.” He didn’t go that far but had entered the stand of pines that bordered the property. He took some deep breaths. “The woods are quite pleasant,” he said, “but the scent of pine cannot entirely overcome the fouler miasma. It persists.”
Yes, Dr. Franklin, it does. It’s not just New Jersey, regardless of all the jokes to that effect. The whole country and the world, to some degree, emits that odor. That overused, overworked, tired, dying odor.
Welcome to the 21st century. I could weep.
Back inside, we assured BF that the outhouse was relatively fragrant (we’d researched plenty of natural odor-fighters so as not to resort to chemicals), as was the barn, since we really only had the two horses and a couple of hens out back for eggs. The land had been in Gerry’s family almost since Franklin’s time. He’d visited his grandparents here and spent summers roaming the woods, which are now less extensive since part of the land was sold sometime in the 1980s. At one time there were pigs and a cow or two. We had mulled recreating the farm as we designed the project, but since the ultimate goal was to acclimate BF to our time, we knew that sooner or later he’d learn the delights of mass food production and supermarkets anyway. Driving a horse-driven carriage, even a few times, was daunting enough for us, without having to milk cows and slaughter pigs. Yikes.
This was the day we knew we’d have to tread very, very carefully. It was one thing to tell the man about the three-century time jump, but quite another to confront him with the reality. He was still processing zippers, for heaven’s sake.
So Trevor got out some documents and they sat down together quietly in the study, while Warren and I took care of some housekeeping stuff, but within earshot of Ben and Trevor. We didn’t want to miss a thing, but agreed that BF would have less difficulty absorbing all the new information if he didn’t have it coming at him from three different people.
The documents Trevor employed were antique books he’d been collecting from brick-and-mortar dealers as well as Ebay and elsewhere on the Internet.
Trevor gently guided BF through the realities.
“Sir, please tell me today’s date as you understand it.”
“November 10...” He hesitated but Trevor nodded encouragingly.
“...Seventeen and ... 85” he concluded with a clear question in his voice.
“Yes, that’s exactly right,” Trevor replied. “Can you tell me how many United States there are?”
Franklin’s tone clearly conveyed what a superfluous question he thought that was. “Why, thirteen.”
Trevor answered softly, “This country has endured, prospered and grown a great deal. Surely, you’ve heard some people express the wish that it might stretch from ocean to ocean.”
“And does it?”
“Yes sir, it does,” said Trevor. “and beyond. Would you care for a refreshment?” I was already filling a pitcher with water -- drawn from a well on the property, filtered several times through charcoal. I prayed the taste was clean.
Franklin thanked me for the pewter cup and seemed not to have a problem with the water. I looked at his face. It was calm, but there was just a touch of wariness in his eyes as he returned his attention to Trevor. I think he was beginning to catch on as to the enormity of changes.
“Now,” continued Trevor. “Can you tell me how many souls live in these states in 1785?”
Franklin considered. The first official census had been taken the year he died, 1790. Therefore, we were all pleasantly surprised when he sat up straighter in his seat and with a certain amount of pride and wonderment said “I hear tell it is close to three million.”
And at this juncture, Trevor hesitated, and we knew he was just plain scared to keep going. But he did, in the end.
“This will surely astound you,” he told our guest in the same gentle tone. “That number has grown three hundredfold.”
November 10, 2030, 11:00 p.m.
This appears to be my optimal writing time. I’m not “plumb tuckered out,” as my grandmother would have put it, and Dr. Franklin has retired to his room.
Well, we’ve gotten through about 3 entire days with the good doctor.
Shortly after we had first met and defined our mission, Warren, Trevor and I, as well as Gerry, had resolved to use the title that Franklin preferred. He was without a doubt one of the leading polymaths in history, putting most modern-day “geniuses” to shame, despite a formal education that only went through the second grade -- along with substantial honorary degrees. All three of us were Ph.Ds, and yet I think I can speak for everyone in saying we felt just a little awkward claiming the title for ourselves in light of Franklin’s accomplishments. But fortunately, we knew he was far too polite and well-bred ever to point that out.
Anyway... here’s where we are. The convenient appliances and comfortable duds are within shouting distance.
We explained (to the best of our ability; we scarcely understand it ourselves) about time travel and how we had partially achieved it. We tried to de-emphasize the “partially” part. Sooner or later, BF is going to glom onto the fact that he will never see the 18th century or his friends or family again. Some iteration of him will, as we can see from unchanged encyclopedia entries. Sooner or later, the term “clone” will enter the conversation, because that’s the closest we can come to describing how Benjamin Franklin can exist separately yet simultaneously in two centuries, more than 300 years apart.
But for now, we just want him to stay alive and healthy and to enjoy a mutual learning experience with us.
He didn’t seem the least bit upset about any of what we told him. I have a strong feeling that he simply doesn’t believe it. He probably thinks he’s dreaming or something. He simply listens, appears to accept what he hears, and asks reasonable questions. He doesn’t protest, doesn’t say it’s not possible. From what we’ve read, he was (is) a deist, not an unbeliever, very open to a wide variety of philosophies but still quite grounded in conventional Christian theism. So I can envision him at night, kneeling by his bed, getting in touch with his Creator and humbly asking for protection, guidance and whatever else he might need on this strange but fascinating journey.
He even demonstrated the same calm acceptance when we told him that our year (the year he’d unexpectedly entered into in the blink of an eye) is 2030. Two thousand thirty. Three hundred twenty-four years after he was born. Yes, we told him, geographically he was still in southern New Jersey. Looking out the windows, as he did, wandering about the 2-acre farm, as he did, he felt comfortable with familiar surroundings. We told him that the land had been preserved carefully not to reflect the changes wrought over the centuries.
But there was one change we could not hide, and it embarrassed us more than we could articulate.
The first time we went out that morning, he walked some distance from the house (and the outhouse), sniffed the air and politely commented that he thought the barn and stables might need cleaning. “There’s an odor in the air,” he said “and it seems to follow one, no matter how far I may go.” He didn’t go that far but had entered the stand of pines that bordered the property. He took some deep breaths. “The woods are quite pleasant,” he said, “but the scent of pine cannot entirely overcome the fouler miasma. It persists.”
Yes, Dr. Franklin, it does. It’s not just New Jersey, regardless of all the jokes to that effect. The whole country and the world, to some degree, emits that odor. That overused, overworked, tired, dying odor.
Welcome to the 21st century. I could weep.
Back inside, we assured BF that the outhouse was relatively fragrant (we’d researched plenty of natural odor-fighters so as not to resort to chemicals), as was the barn, since we really only had the two horses and a couple of hens out back for eggs. The land had been in Gerry’s family almost since Franklin’s time. He’d visited his grandparents here and spent summers roaming the woods, which are now less extensive since part of the land was sold sometime in the 1980s. At one time there were pigs and a cow or two. We had mulled recreating the farm as we designed the project, but since the ultimate goal was to acclimate BF to our time, we knew that sooner or later he’d learn the delights of mass food production and supermarkets anyway. Driving a horse-driven carriage, even a few times, was daunting enough for us, without having to milk cows and slaughter pigs. Yikes.
This was the day we knew we’d have to tread very, very carefully. It was one thing to tell the man about the three-century time jump, but quite another to confront him with the reality. He was still processing zippers, for heaven’s sake.
So Trevor got out some documents and they sat down together quietly in the study, while Warren and I took care of some housekeeping stuff, but within earshot of Ben and Trevor. We didn’t want to miss a thing, but agreed that BF would have less difficulty absorbing all the new information if he didn’t have it coming at him from three different people.
The documents Trevor employed were antique books he’d been collecting from brick-and-mortar dealers as well as Ebay and elsewhere on the Internet.
Trevor gently guided BF through the realities.
“Sir, please tell me today’s date as you understand it.”
“November 10...” He hesitated but Trevor nodded encouragingly.
“...Seventeen and ... 85” he concluded with a clear question in his voice.
“Yes, that’s exactly right,” Trevor replied. “Can you tell me how many United States there are?”
Franklin’s tone clearly conveyed what a superfluous question he thought that was. “Why, thirteen.”
Trevor answered softly, “This country has endured, prospered and grown a great deal. Surely, you’ve heard some people express the wish that it might stretch from ocean to ocean.”
“And does it?”
“Yes sir, it does,” said Trevor. “and beyond. Would you care for a refreshment?” I was already filling a pitcher with water -- drawn from a well on the property, filtered several times through charcoal. I prayed the taste was clean.
Franklin thanked me for the pewter cup and seemed not to have a problem with the water. I looked at his face. It was calm, but there was just a touch of wariness in his eyes as he returned his attention to Trevor. I think he was beginning to catch on as to the enormity of changes.
“Now,” continued Trevor. “Can you tell me how many souls live in these states in 1785?”
Franklin considered. The first official census had been taken the year he died, 1790. Therefore, we were all pleasantly surprised when he sat up straighter in his seat and with a certain amount of pride and wonderment said “I hear tell it is close to three million.”
And at this juncture, Trevor hesitated, and we knew he was just plain scared to keep going. But he did, in the end.
“This will surely astound you,” he told our guest in the same gentle tone. “That number has grown three hundredfold.”
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