A few weeks back, I decided to revisit a friend who spends his night working a bakery. While there, we ran into some of his other friends who work with wood pieces that they sell in the monthly antique fair in West Bottoms. While surrounded in warm light and smell of bread, these semi-inebriated acquaintances proceeded to tell my friend that the wood they provided for his ceiling came from a house that was once occupied by a young Samuel Clemens. For a second, they searched the room, curious if anyone caught the reference, when they noticed my bugged-out eyes while I yelped: "MARK TWAIN!?" Suddenly, I was struck with images straight from a brilliantly bad Hollywood film that was never made: the ghost of Mark Twain emerges from the wood and becomes the pesky, loveable roommate of my friend, intruding on dates, and reciting necessary diatribes about society at large, while guiltily imbibing commercial vices like reality television.
If Mark Twain had a blog, or better yet, a reality show, I'm curious at how it would play out. Either way, the house where he resided was apparently dilapidated but by the river and looking out onto it, I would love to think he imagined Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer and how the entire growth of a fledgling nation played out on the banks of this meandering flow of water. It also made me wonder about appreciating the relics of our heritage. T.S. Eliot grew up on the other side of Missouri. When my friend Julie went in search of his childhood home, she found a mattress factory.
But undeterred by this minor tragedy, she recited bits of his poetry. That fortunately still lingers.
