T—B Wright looks like a big brute beast, like a heel from a 1970s pro wrestling circuit. His big brain, though, beams enthusiasm through his sky-lit eyes. As he walked me into his house I was greeted by three very pretty faces, his wife Blanca, which means White-girl, their two daughters who are precocious home-schoolers who ganged up on me in Chinese checkers, there little brother, who doesn’t talk yet, but communicates in rough-and-tumbled ways…

Arriving about 3 PM, I was seated at the round kitchen table next to a sliding glass door debouching onto a patio next to which a kitchen garden stands fallow and frosted before the kitchen window. A few acres of woods circle the hill-top property between two pastures and the mansion two hundred yards down the private road on the hill side. These Missouri highlands around Washington, remind us both of Pennsylvania without the thick undergrowth. The girls have made a snow tunnel outside. They miss the horses that the old woman who owns the pasture used to keep there before she moved. This place is far beyond hoodrat logistical capacity. For a man who resided in the poorer Maryland suburbs of Washington D.C., where he met this pretty Latina refugee, and her, having escaped the shadows of criminality in this and another country, this idyllic ranch house nestled among lonely hills surrounded by working farms is a storybook refuge.

As T—B and I have an initial planning discussion for the Monday night and Tuesday night stay, Blanca hands off the baby boy to one girl and the other sets the table and bakes the tortillas. Blanca has made a meaty soup. Her husband and I ramble until 10:30 when Blanca reminds him that his guest looks tired. Her English is a limited cute dialect that goes well with the understated expression writ on her pretty round face. T—B seems to speak good Spanish. The girls look like future beauty queens and wait on the two men seated at the table. Date, the squat pug with the lolling tongue, takes note that I am to be served first and offered seconds and thirds, and makes certain to sit between my booted feet. He is an agreeable, worthless, suburban dog.

She has made me a large bed in the spacious basement with a heat dish that does not blow air but radiates warmth. The basement is built around the single long flight of stairs that descends from the center of the spacious first floor built around a central casement of many 2 by 12s. The top of the stairs is gated against the tyke taking a tumble, his sense of adventure is offended.

In the east corner is a carpeted 12 by 16 feet with desk, bed, nightstand and book shelf. The daughters have a Wizard of Oz library/collection. Between the queen size bed and the sliding glass window to the south facing wood, is a walking machine on the smooth sealed concrete. Before the stairs, between the four large beams, is a clear area of 14 by 16 feet that could be for training. In the southwest corner, is a 12 by 8 carpeted craft area, with long white table piled with books and writing materials, the personal computer of the writer, where we will record videos.

The west wall is solid block with a built in alcove for the small wood stove that does not seem to have been used, but is piped up through the chimney under the living room. T—B owns all the timber he would need in certain situations to keep his house warm.

Around the stairway casement, in the center of the north wall, is a work office on a 12 by 8 carpet. It seems to be for video conferencing, with a nice book shelf behind it; and behind that book shelf I see a secret chamber, the shelf being a secret door. I imagine that beyond is T—B Wright, of Doctor Stormgren’s true study lined with myriad books.

I sleep well before the luminous heat dish, though the bronchitus is coming back. Come morning I hear a tyke upstairs and stir. Putting on the visitor pants Deb bought me, and slipping on my slippers Dove bought me, I look between my feet to see Date appear there, lolling tongue up at me, his glassy amber-black eyes telepathically informing me, “Cracker, Mamma is cooking—TIME TO EAT!”

Upstairs I was greeted by the smell of garden grown peppers roasting. The pretty little woman, stronger than this old cracker by double and maybe five feet tall, held the boy half her size on one hip while slicing, dicing, frying, and mixing. She is thrilled to discover I like jalapeno and halbenero, both of which she grows by the bushel. Her husband works on the company laptop while I write on my tramp laptop. The oldest girl bakes sourdough bread. Mamma butchers a bag of avocados, coffee is brewed and brought to us: a working breakfast. Date observes this all from between my feet. He then gets to eat as soon as the humans are done.

After the morning’s work T—B pulls out his book of martyrs and we browse, I finding some good Plantation America references. He then grins and pulls out a 14 by 20 inch book: a leather, slip covered, King James Bible, printed according to the original edition with the full notes of the translators and the history of the ancient patriarchs, in large calligraphy. Both of us species of book nerds wonder in our own way.

We record for hours in the afternoon. This is a two meal household. For dinner I am treated to Blanca’s best food, the girls cutting the bread and serving drinks, the youngest making tea. The tyke is curious about me and the girls not used to their father’ attention being diverted so much. I asked for cards, brought by the eldest. I ran a clinic on playing a hand of rummy, which I lost as the eldest girl has an aggressive style and the youngest plays the sleeper. Then Chinese checkers, in which the two little beauties bared their claws and giggled with glee as they marked me as the best player and the little sister devoted herself to defense so her elder could beat the yeti to his rightful den.

Breakfast on Wednesday was delicious again and Blanca lead the team. American women lag 15 to 45 minutes behind the men in going out the door, But this chick is like a camp marshal, one child slung on a shapely hip, the Genius Beast and their two darling daughters assigned tasks verbally. The occasion of taking me to Saint Louis became a fun family outing. It was the first day the trains were running up into Illinois. Invited back, I was dropped off at Gateway Station and entered to see two cops helping a disoriented homeless man caught inside the station trying to evade the 5 degree weather…