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SMASHWORDS EDITION
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Published By:
Val Edward Simone on Smashwords
The Secret Life of Gonner Andling
Text Copyright © 2011 by Val Edward Simone.
All Rights Reserved.
Cover Design: Val Edward Simone
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All rights reserved. Except for use in any review and without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this ebook.
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The Secret Life of Gonner Andling is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to local persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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I met Gonner Andling, and my life has never been the same.
Trekking through the thick forest of northern Washington State very near the Canadian border one summer’s day not too many years ago, I stumbled through a thicket into a clearing. Looking up, I noticed the small, ancient-looking cabin. Seated on the front porch sat an even more ancient-looking man who looked very familiar, though I couldn’t put a name to him.
He sat in a handmade log chair at a handmade log table, with a quill pen in hand, writing on a piece of parchment laid out in front of him.
Stunned to find anyone living in this section of the vast forest, I blurted out my surprise. “Please forgive my intrusion, sir. I had no idea anyone lived in this part of the forest.”
He stopped writing and stared up at me. Instead of being annoyed that I had disturbed his solitude, he smiled warmly.
“Greetings, friend,” he said.
“Really, sir, I’m sorry. I had no idea you were here.”
“I’ve lived here a very long time, but I have rarely found it necessary to leave my clearing, so it’s little wonder that you didn’t know I was here. Come, friend. Sit with me on my porch.”
As I approached the old man, the feeling that I had seen him somewhere before returned.
“Pardon me, sir. Forgive my stare, but you look very familiar.”
He laughed lightly, and then it struck me. “There. That laugh of yours—now I have it. My God, man, you’re the spitting image of Santa Claus. How uncanny.”
He chuckled again. “Yes, I’ve been told that before. I’m afraid it’s just the way I laugh.”
“Not only your laugh, sir,” I said, shaking his hand, “but your hair, your beard—I dare say your entire physique. You look just like an old picture I’ve seen of Santa Claus in his long undershirt.”
“Yes,” he replied with a smile. “I’ve heard that before as well. It’s the way I was built, I guess. Please sit. Would you care for some apple cider?”
“Thank you, but I don’t mean to disturb you.” Then I noticed again his quill pen and parchment page. “How odd,” I blurted out.
“What’s that?” he replied.
“Your writing implements. The quill pen, the parchment page. I’ve never seen them except in museums.”
As he stepped into his cabin, I removed my heavy backpack and dropped it to the ground. Seconds later, he returned with a tall glass of chilled cider and handed it to me.
“It’s cold,” I said.
“Yes. I like it that way during the summer. Would you prefer yours heated?”
“No, thank you. I’m just surprised. I don’t see any power lines to your cabin for a refrigerator. How did you chill the cider?”
“Solar panels,” he replied. “I had them set up behind the cabin. I get my electricity from them. It’s sufficient enough for my simple needs.”
“Interesting. But again, your writing implements. Why don’t you use a computer? Don’t most writers today use them?”
“I like this way better. It’s what I know. I wrote this way when I was a young lad, and I find it easier to express my thoughts in this fashion.”
“That certainly makes sense, but I have another question. You wrote with a quill when you were young?”
“I did.”
“You do look old, but you don’t look old enough to have used a quill pen as a child. Didn’t they become obsolete at the turn of the twentieth century?”
“Yes they did, and it’s now quite difficult to find them when I need a replacement.”
“I can imagine. Well, no matter. If you enjoy writing in this fashion, then so be it. Have you published anything?”
“Oh, heavens no,” he said, almost proudly.
“Then it’s more a hobby than a business?”
“A hobby? No, not that. The best way to describe it is that it fulfills me, fulfills a need within me.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“A very long time, lad. Many, many decades have passed since I moved here.”
“Well, you couldn’t have picked a more secluded and peaceful spot in the forest. It’s miles away from anything. Hundreds of miles, in fact.”
“Yes. That’s why I’m here.”
“Once again, please forgive my intrusion.”
“Nonsense. I’m glad you stopped by. It’s always nice to meet a new friend, wouldn’t you say?”
“It is indeed. Oh—forgive my ghastly manners. My name is Joe Betsel.”
“I’m called Gonner. Gonner Andling.”
“Gonner? That’s a unique first name.”
“Yes, I’ve been told that. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Joe. And what brings you this far out into the forest, may I ask?”
“I’m a sketch artist. I specialize in pencil drawings. I like to trek about where very few people have ever been and draw things that perhaps have never been drawn before.”
“Ah. You’re the adventurous type, then?”
“Yes, and I’m afraid I’m also a bit of a loner.”
“We are kindred spirits in that regard.”
“Are we?”
“It would certainly seem so. That’s why I’m here.”
“I guess you could say I’m the black sheep of the family,” I blurted out. “My parents are pretty famous and my brother is a popular actor in Hollywood. Heck, he’s the star of the whole family, really.”
“Does that trouble you? Do you feel left out?” he asked.
“No, I’m just stating a truth. I’m actually very pleased for him. It’s not the sort of thing I could do, but it suits him to a tee.”
Gonner chuckled again. “We are much more alike than I can say, Joe. Pardon me, but what’s in that backpack of yours?”
“Just a tent and supplies that I need out here in the forest.”
“A tent, you say?”
“Yes, sir. A pup tent. It’s quite comfortable. At least I think so.”
“And you enjoy sleeping in it at night?”
“During the summer I rarely sleep anywhere else. Even at home I have it set up in my backyard. I sleep like a baby in it.”
“Well, if you’d like, you’re more than welcome to set it up right over there. I’d be pleased if you could stay around a while and visit with me. I don’t get many visitors here, as you might guess.”
“Thanks, Gonner. I’d really like that. I’ll take you up on that offer.”
And so I did just that. I set up my tent, and Gonner and I shared a wonderful meal together inside his astonishingly modern cabin, which had all the latest conveniences of a new home. The cabin’s exterior, a throwback to the days of mountain men, definitely belied its interior.
Gonner had built the cabin by himself over several years. I wondered how he’d gotten all the modern appliances out from the city, which was at least a hundred miles away, but he just said that Santa Claus had brought them to him at Christmastime over the years. I left it at that, thinking that he had a reason for not telling me the truth. He looked like a man who valued his privacy.
We sat and chatted until quite late. We found that our lives were remarkably similar in many ways, and I liked him very much. But most amazing were his stories. The man was a gifted storyteller.
He had written so many stories over his life that he had one room dedicated to storing his parchment pages. They sat stacked up on huge shelves, unbound, and some of them looked ancient.
“I didn’t know you could still buy parchment.”
“Well, I get a supply from Santa Claus each year,” he answered with a sly smile.
I chuckled. “Ah,” I said. “That explains it.”
When the chill of evening set in, we went from cold cider to hot mulled cider, seated in front of his massive stone fireplace and soothed by the crackling of a large cedar fire.
As he finished one story, I begged him for another and then another, and he happily complied. He was a most entertaining man, but as it grew late, I could see his eyes drooping.
“It’s been a most entertaining evening, Gonner. I can’t thank you enough, but I should let you get some sleep. If you leave it to me, I’ll have you telling me stories all night long.”
“That would be delightful, Joe, but I’m afraid at my age sleep is a necessary element of my life. We’ll chat more in the morning, lad.”
I turned in for the night, fully expecting to move on at daybreak, but when I arose well before sunrise, I saw Gonner sitting on his porch scribbling on the parchment, surrounded by four lighted candles in tall polished brass candlestick holders.
Fascinated by the table sight, I pulled a sketchpad from my backpack and began to draw. I tell you, when I finished, it was like a Norman Rockwell scene staring back at me and then coming to life.
I set the sketchpad down and just stared at the old man, writing away as if a story would burst from him if he did not set it down quickly on parchment. Finally, he put his pen down and glanced up at me, that warm and friendly smile cracking across his face once more.
“I make the best darn flapjacks you’ve ever had. Would you care to join me for breakfast?”
“I could never turn down flapjacks in the forest,” I said, grinning.
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He’d decided to eat on the table on the porch, so he gently pushed aside his parchment and set the plates, filled with wheat flapjacks, down in front of me, along with genuine butter and pure maple syrup. As we drank perfect coffee and freshly squeezed orange juice, we shared a breakfast chat.
“Can you tell me about the story you were working on?” I asked.
“It’s just another children’s story that came to me earlier this morning.”
“Do you ever have that thing that writers get? You know, where you can’t write?”
“You mean writer’s block?”
“Yeah.”
“No, I’ve never experienced that phenomenon. My head is filled with fantasy.”
“That’s amazing. From the looks of your library, it appears you’ve been at it for many years.”
“Longer than that, Joe. Much longer than that, I think.”
“Is that what you write most, children’s stories?”
“No, I write many types of fiction. Short stories, novels, whatever comes to mind at any given time. My life is filled with fantasy. Always has been. I’ve been writing since I was a child.”
“I hope you don’t mind my next question, but I’ve been wondering just how old you are.”
“I’m so old, Joe, that you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Take a shot at it,” I said.
“Perhaps another time.”
I could see that he was protective about the issue, so I just nodded and changed the subject. “Well, it has been a most wonderful time here. I have to tell you, you’ve made me feel most welcome, and it’s appreciated. I guess I should get packed up and move on and let you get back to your solitude.”
“Not at all, Joe. If you can spare the time and you like fishing, there is a wonderful pond that’s just teeming with fish. I have an extra pole.”
“Are you serious?”
“I am.”
“Well. That just sounds like the perfect thing to do right now. Perhaps I could sketch a bit also.”
Gonner packed a lunch into a small cooler, and before I knew it we were sitting next to the most beautiful pond I have ever seen, before or since. To say that it was perfect would not do it justice.
He used no bait, just an empty hook, but his casting reel was from the top of the market. “The Spincast 5000,” I said admiringly.
“Yes. I have two. This one is yours,” he replied, handing me a duplicate of his fishing pole.
“I suppose Santa brought these to you?” I asked in jest.
“Exactly. He’s been good to me.”
“It certainly appears so.”
He snapped the line behind him and let it fly out to the middle of the pond. There the bob sat, floating in the water, baitless.
“You don’t need bait?” I asked.
“Never use it, Joe. I’d catch a fish if I did.”
“I understand, Gonner: you like fishing, but you don’t like to catch fish.”
“Exactly,” he said. “I let them live in peace.”
If anyone else had told me that, I would surely have thought them mad, but coming from Gonner, it seemed completely reasonable. He was not a man to live at odds with anything or anyone. Dare I say that being in his company was the most relaxing time I’ve ever spent with another human being?
We spent the morning engaged in idle chat and storytelling. Before I knew, it was lunchtime. And then came dinner, and then breakfast the next morning, then lunch, then dinner.
Every day brought new delights, and I soon found it impossible to even think about leaving. I finally realized that I had spent my entire summer camped out in Gonner’s front yard.
Fall came heavy in the air, and sleeping in my tent was no longer comfortable, so Gonner moved me into his spare bedroom. We continued to share stories and wonderful times together.
Fall slipped into winter. Christmas was now only days away.
“I can’t believe I’ve been here all this time, Gonner. I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to thank you for your hospitality,” I said while packing our freshly cut Christmas tree back to the cabin.
“It is I who should thank you, Joe,” he said. “These last months have been magical for me as well. Tomorrow is the twenty-second, and my brother will be stopping by for his annual visit. I think you’ll like him very much. He’s the star of my family.”
“That’s why you said we were so much alike, huh?”
“Exactly.”
We spent the rest of the night decorating the tree until I had to stand back and stare at it. Soon, out came the sketchpad.
“Gonner. I’m curious. You’ve never talked about your family. Can you share anything about them?”
He handed me a hot mulled cider, perfectly spiced, of course, and then sat down in his favorite chair in front of the blazing fireplace.
“Certainly,” he said, sipping his cider. “My brother and I are twins. I’m the younger one, born two minutes and twelve seconds after Nicholas. My parents are Jacob and Greta Andling.”
“Are? Then they’re still alive?”
“They are indeed.”
“Where are you from originally, may I ask?”
“I’m from up north.”
“Canada?”
“You could say that.”
“Why did you move to Washington?”
“It seemed like a good thing to do at the time.”
“I don’t mean to prod you, but could you expand on that a little?”
“Certainly, lad. Growing up, Nicholas was the outgoing child. He was always a happy tyke, and his radiant personality attracted people to him wherever he went. My parents were and still are the most admired couple in our little town, but though their renown is forever assured, Nicholas’ fame outshines them both. It could be said that Nicholas is sunlight itself during the day and the twinkle that gives the stars life at night. In the eyes of my parents—people everywhere, actually—he can do no wrong.
“By contrast, I grew up a quiet, shy, somewhat reclusive lad. I still am, obviously. I neither competed with my brother’s fame nor did I ever wish to do so. Just as with you and your brother, his popularity suited him, but it was not for me.
“Even when we attended parties and other social functions as a family, I soon found myself off in a quiet corner of the room silently observing my brother’s magical personality in its full bloom. Crowds just naturally gathered around him and completely ignored me.”
“That must have been tough to deal with.”
“Not at all. As I said, all the attention lavished on my brother was rightly deserved. Every bit of it. On the other hand, I delighted in my solitude and obscurity. I was ever busily occupied with the wonderfully fictional lives of my own creation. Within my active brain, I had all the friends and fame I could ever want.”
“Still, that must have hurt a bit, being forgotten and dismissed like that. I can certainly identify with that feeling myself.”
“You have been with me now for several months, Joe. Have I ever appeared to be bitter about anything?”
“No, you certainly have not. In fact, listening to the story of your life, I’m amazed how well adjusted you are.”
“Thank you, Joe. Let me add to this and say that when my brother finally achieved his greatest fame of all, it was as normal as it could be. In fact, it would have been a terrible and unacceptable shock to everyone had such an honor been bestowed on anyone but Nicholas.
“Although I was very happy for his star status, all the hoopla, pomp, and ceremony didn’t matter all that much to me.
“It’s funny now to think about it, but to anyone who ever bothered to ask, which wasn’t often, I was known only as Nicholas Andling’s unimportant twin brother and nothing more. I dare say that had it not been a simple matter of the documented fact that I was his twin brother, no one would have remembered my name or known that I existed at all.”
“And you’re telling me that this has not ever troubled you in some way?”
“Not at all, Joe. But I can say this also: it was hardly noticed by anybody when I packed up and left the town for the southlands.
“Here among the sweet-smelling evergreens, nestled deep into this little valley split in two by the little river that feeds the pond, I figured to live out my life in peace and quiet, forever immersed in my fantasy world. And here I am today.”
“That is astounding; your life could be a mirror of mine. Maybe that’s why we get along so well.”
He chuckled again, that amazing sound.
“I must say, Gonner, I never tire of your wonderful laugh.”
“If it pleases you, then I’m pleased.”
“You’re one of the most remarkable people I’ve ever met, Gonner. There is a peace about you that I don’t think I can justifiably describe.”
“Thank you, Joe. But just wait until you meet my brother tomorrow. You’ll then understand why I speak of him so admiringly.”
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The next afternoon, Gonner and I were splitting wood when I heard an odd noise behind us. I set down my ax and turned to look. A thick coat of fresh snow blanketed the landscape, and I saw no other tracks except those coming from Gonner’s cabin door to where we now stood. I spun about, looking for the source of the sound, but saw no other living creature. I finally shrugged my shoulders and returned to my wood-splitting chore.
“Must be in your head, Joe,” I remember saying to myself.
I picked up my ax and placed another block of wood to split when the sound broke the silence once again. This time Gonner also looked up.
“Does that sound like hoofs stomping upon frozen ground to you, Gonner?”
“It does, lad,” he responded, not stopping his task. “Perhaps it’s the elk rooting for leftover grass. They do that, you know.”
I turned again, still saw nothing. I shrugged my shoulders again, raised the ax over my head, and brought it down on the wood, splitting it neatly into two halves.
I turned one of the halves around to split it again, and as I raised the ax over my head, I heard the rustle of bushes behind me. I twirled around to see Santa Claus step through the brush grinning broadly.
“Hello, Gonner,” Santa said.
“Hello, brother,” Gonner answered.
The End
(Merry Christmas!)