By 3 o'clock most afternoons, once the newspaper had gone to bed, I retreated to my private office in the Professional Building next to the courthouse on Young Street, where I banged out historical features for The State magazine on an old manual typewriter. It was a refreshing change from the board meetings, court judgments and police, fire and rescue incidents normally associated with my byline in the Daily Dispatch.

My office shared a foyer with the law office of old Mr. Fred Hines. Passing by his open door, I'd often spy him reclined in his swivel chair, feet propped on the desk, hands clasped across his midsection, sound asleep. He was a tall, bony man of great angularity, with a waxy complexion and a crown of silver thatch.

Whenever I caught him napping, I'd pause long enough to be reassured by the rise and fall of his chest, indicative of respiration. He was so old it only seemed reasonable to assume I might one day discover him in the inanimate state.

"And how are you today, Mr. Hines?" I'd call if he were conscious.

"Hiya, Zoot. Not doing enough work to break the Sabbath."

His youngest son, John "Zoot" Hines, had seen more than 50 summers, but I must have favored him somehow when he was my age. A short-circuit in the old man's memory banks sometimes merged the generations.

Mr. Hines was semi-retired. Force of habit, rather than constant demand, prompted him to hang little signs on his office door apprising clients of his whereabouts: "Back In 15 Minutes," "At Lunch," "In Court" and "Gone For The Day."

His law practice was no longer active enough to employ a secretary, even part-time. When in need, Mr. Hines had formerly been in the habit of invading the Young Street offices of junior members of the bar and pestering their secretaries into helping him out. This foraging for typists was tolerated out of respect for his age, but just barely.

My arrival, fresh from college, helped alleviate the situation. Early on, Mr. Hines and I came to an arrangement. Typing up the occasional deed or other legal document for him entitled me to use the telephone in his office for local calls. It saved us both a little money and reduced friction on the block.

One afternoon Mr. Hines approached me with a proposition that, unknown to either of us, would open the door to another world.

"My wife's got to go to Chicago to look after her sister, who's taken sick," he told me. "I'm a little anxious about staying by myself at night. I was hoping maybe you'd bunk in the guestroom downstairs a few nights. I'd be glad to pay you something."

"Not necessary," I demurred. "Feed me supper, and you've got a deal."

It was a safe bet Mrs. Hines would leave him well provisioned. The first night we ate cold ham, potato salad, corn pudding, baked beans, turnip greens and lemon meringue pie.

The old Hines place was a rambling Victorian pile of lumber, with a wrap-around porch sporting fanciful "gingerbread" trim. I felt like I was stepping back in time. The old boy knew of my interest in history.

"A man named Wise used to be connected with the tungsten mine," Mr. Hines told me over supper. "He was a geologist. You know about tungsten?"

"Light bulb filaments. Steel-making."

"That's right. Cheap tungsten from Bolivia finally put them out of business. But the mine used to rent a room upstairs here, to have available for visitors, including Dr. Wise.

"Whenever they ran out of tungsten, they'd call Dr. Wise in California. Once when they ran through a vein, he came and drew them a plat. He said to go so many feet this way and then go this way and so on. The miners said they got it, and Dr. Wise went back to California.

Next page >

Get $150+ in coupons in every Sunday N&O. Click here for convenient home delivery.