Logbook 9: Was that a real dream?

As the logbook keeper at Lost Goat Coffee House, I have both a responsibility and a freedom to portray life at the coffee house thoroughly and honestly. I have been reading Immanuel Kant, and his Groundwork of the Metaphysic of Morals has caught my attention and pricked my conscience. I'm troubled enough by Kant to want to help my readers distinguish fact from fiction, reality from dream. Feedback I've been getting (please see the Comments) suggests I should take more care to document and verify, as a good journalist would. Against this backdrop, some of the previous entries, especially the one immediately preceding this one, blur the line, and it's my duty to rectify, to the degree that I can.

I know it's not common for a man of the rails to study philosophy, but exposure to new ideas, especially aided by the stimulant of coffee, can provoke intellectual activity in the dullest of minds. Coffee houses have a rich history in bringing out the intellects (or some vague facsimile of them) in their patrons. For example, coffee houses had barely come on the scene in 17th century London before the monarch worried. An emissary of the king himself described his investigation this way: "In a coffee house just now among the rabble, I bluntly asked, which is the treason table?" To the delight of the growing number of patrons, coffee houses become known as "seminaries of sedition." Rome, too, was concerned, and at one point in the drink's colorful history, the papacy conspired to keep coffee from the mouths of the masses (and close to the Vatican chambers). Today Americans have at their disposal a coffee shop on nearly corner, so the potential for sedition is greater than ever. Is this a legitimate worry? My personal feeling as that as long as Americans take their "venti latte" to go, there is no need for political leaders to worry. Let them stop and talk, however, and the overthrow of some government -- any government -- is at hand.

It's this spectacle of color that has appeal at Lost Goat Coffee House, and I suspect that's what drew the actress Felicity Hunter. Our place is a stage where patrons linger and converse, and our customers are thespians of the highest caliber; no one knows if they're acting or for real. The prospect of financial success at Lost Goat Coffee House is presently limited; our enterprise is not embraced by the mainstream of Eden Hills. Instead, it seems to attract its shady underbelly, which has both the time and the inclination to gab. The rest are going somewhere, God knows where.

I have mentioned Immanuel Kant at the top of this entry, because it is his excellent work in the field of morality that influenced me prior to the visit to Miss Hunter's dressing room. I'm well aware that the experience related in Logbook 8 is, if not pure fantasy, at least on the edge of pure fantasy. In that entry, I had only recently awakened from a dream, inventoried my senses and was immediately involved in the problem of conveying a perfect latte to Miss Hunter's dressing room. The method of conveyance that I reported, in retrospect, appears to me to be too fantastic to be real. Could it have been merely my dream, and not an actual experience? I am troubled by this, because it is not my will to deceive. If my report on an event has somehow become so subjective as to include a dream, it's time I stepped back and assessed my faculties. For starters, I determined at least to learn the experience of Miss Hunter herself.

Miss Hunter is all about theater; all the world's a stage to her. When she called and ordered her 16-ounce latte, I found my opportunity. As soon as JR had prepared her favorite drink, I was off. I rehearsed my questions, thought about the moral implications of deceiving my readers, and commanded myself to discover and report the absolute truth.

At the Center for the Performing Arts at Lake Eden Landing I caught Miss Hunter in the midst of her preparation for performance. To my surprise, she didn't send me away in feigned embarrassment. Instead, she invited me to sit and watch.

"It's not easy , dahling," she said with wry self-effacement. "Being beautiful is not easy. It is not for the shy; not for the faint of heart. Courage! Courage to create. Courage to be."

She sat before the tri-view mirror at her dressing table, her face thoroughly scrubbed and ready. "It's a canvas," she said. "You shall see a work of art."

She tightened her dressing robe and pulled her copious red hair into a ponytail. A headband kept her bangs from her face. She used a pencil to shape and highlight her eyebrows. Then she took a tube from her table and squeezed a tad into her left hand.

"Concealer, dahling," she said. "It's the gesso, the basecoat." She applied it sparingly but with confidence, until her face took a unified hue, complementing her red tresses and covering freckles and blemishes.

"Voila!"

Using a flat, firm, slightly tapered brush, she applied a coating sufficient to neutralize undesirable colors. She had selected a faint pink tone, similar to her natural skin color but a touch darker, as stage makeup tends. She feathered the material gently outward.

"The cardnial rule, honey, is blend, blend, blend," she said. "Isn't it magic, Denis? I am flawless. I am artist. I am Picasso. No blems, dahling. No blems."

Feebly, I replied, "Yes, Miss Hunter. It certainly is amazing. Thank you!"

She finished with the concealer and began with the foundation. She divided her face into thirds and worked progressively on each. She started at the center of each section and worked the sponge outward in short strokes to the hair line, under her jaw, and down her tapered neck. The foundation set up as she worked, but she knew its characteristic. She worked with the fine hair on her face, gently pushing it aside with color until it disappeared. She inspected the angles of her face and used the make-up sponge to smooth and blend where needed. Then, in gentle, even strokes she applied a white-based cream pencil under her eyebrows, under her eyes, and down the length of her distinctive nose. She carefully blended every edge until there was absolutely no discernable line of white. She dusted her face with powder and sat perfectly still, her defined eyelids gently closed, until it set.

Suddenly she spoke. "There! Perfection! What do you say, Denis?"

I could say nothing, because there before me sat the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She gently let down her hair and brushed it smooth, the gorgeous red curls bouncing lightly on her shoulders, which she had bared. She applied lipstick and finishing touches to the liner around her eyes. Though I was but a few inches from her splendid face, I could see nothing of the paint she had brushed; no suggestion at all of deception. She had, in fact, taken her already fine face and transformed it into cover-girl perfection.

"No blems, Miss Hunter. There are absolutley no blems, ma'am. You're exquisite. Perfect."

Logbook 8: A perfect latte for Miss Felicity Hunter

On the 7th of June of the second year, I awoke from a terrible dream. As my senses rose to the surface of the great pond I have called sleep, I felt deep within my brain a dull pain, as if squeezed from within. I lay in the bed and shifted lugubriously for coolness until my skin, completely exposed and vulnerable, found reprieve in the unwarmed portion of the linen sheets. I lay there, first listening, and the sense I call hearing reported (as a dutiful soldier) that automobiles and trucks and motorcycles, potentially driven my men and women and not other machines, moved at substantial speed on the freeway. I moved the finger and thumb of my left hand and my brain recorded instantly that my beard traced the edges of my face. I quit my shallow breathing and with focused deliberation, drew air deeply into my lungs, then exhaled slowly and completely until my lungs reported exhaustion and my brain noted that evacuation was complete. I then focused my entire being on the simple but much misunderstood process of smell. I sensed a pungent moistness that may have emitted from the mulch beneath the trees and bushes outside my open window. It was familiar. I then tasted the sour particles on my lips and on the roof of my mouth. Encouraged, I opened my eyes slowly; gray, indistinct light entered and was captured and reported to my brain. The inventory of my five senses was complete, and I deemed with faint resolution myself to be alive.

I cannot say whether my brain moved me ahead, or if the converse were the case. Certain was the distinction of one from the other; that is to say, brain and physical being moved separately from the Great Pond that I have called sleep. Memory emerged. There had been a great black box into which I had been stuffed, and its edges, though distinct, were blurred and might be described as fuzzy, not yet gray, but as if becoming gray. Eyesight distinguished the confines of the black box, and I knew it was not infinite. I used the Idea of a measuring tape to determine the length, breadth and heighth of the black box, but the numbers on the measuring tape were of a denotation I could neither recognize nor decipher. From this experience, I deduced that the dimensions were real but recordable only in concepts I did not understand. I could not smell, taste, touch or hear it. I could only see it, and it was black with indistinct, fuzzy edges. In the black box was a stage, and the stage was not illuminated. On the stage were characters that moved in unison to inaudible music. It was not clear to me whether I was experiencing something or nothing at all. Idea, and it dandled me as if a baby succoring at mother's breast.

I collected my energies and with great effort threw aside the bed clothes. Air from my open window and open door, like the brush of boar bristle, prickled my bare skin. The din of the passing vehicles grew louder, and the aroma of the rose and jasmine were pleasurable and worldly. I brought my hand to my face and stroked my beard, like a meditating imam. I walked to the bathroom and felt the stiff carpet on my feet. I urinated and smelled the wafting odor of it. I turned the faucet and washed my hands with soap (which a friend had given me) from the Eden Hills Hotel, and then I drew a glass of purified water from the Eden River, gargled and swished, and then brushed my teeth with Colgate fortified with fluoride for cavity prevention and spearmint for flavor. In the mirror, I saw the face of Denis Dedrow (which is captured to your right by the deft brush and colors of the famous artist, Dani Weiner) and in the mirror behind saw the cleavage and noted the black hair of my shoulders and ribs. I dressed quietly.

At the front counter of Lost Goat Coffee House where I work for lodging and camaraderie, JR greeted me with enthusiasm. He said the actress Felicity Hunter had called and asked that a 16-ounce latte be delivered to her dressing room at the Center for the Performing Arts at Lake Eden Landing. It must be piping hot and finished artistically with the image of a sword fern from the shores of beautiful Lake Eden. Only JR was adept at latte art of this calibre. Our challenge would be to get the drink from the Lost Goat Coffee House to the dressing room of Felicity Hunter without losing its form, its substance or its heat.

We deduced a great plan that would require the collective effort of all of the patrons of Lost Goat Coffee House. Our Idea, which would be dreamlike, was to convey the drink by means of commonly shared experiences. Normally we would have taken the drink by bicycle in a thermal insulated hot pack, carefully shored up and locked into place so as not to spill. We were aware of the shortcoming of this method under the present circumstances. Miss Felicity Hunter, an actress of supreme reputation, must have a drink worthy of her great art. Would it be possible to place ourselves irrevocably on the very same stage with Miss Felicity Hunter and therefore to be able to share with her the adoraton of her vast audience? If the drink could be gotten to her sufficiently, piping hot (that is to say, steam visibly rising from its surface), in a 16-ounce ceramic latte cup placed accordingly on a matching saucer, and adorned lovingly by the clever hand of JR with an artful fern leaf (in perfect replication of a real sword fern from the banks of Lake Eden), would this not be an unprecedented performance of significant theatrical importance? We set to work.

JR announced to the morning patrons the scope of our work and solicited the involvement of everyone. To our surprise, no one refused. Christopher DeFarge signalled his commitment by grunting; Ernie and Crazy Mike said their schedules would permit. DeFarge was most essential to the operation, because he, being both blind and deaf, had the ability to focus his three remaining senses. Ernie had known great risk and peril already in his life, having survived the almost unique experience of sailing the Huangpu River as an infant. Crazy Mike could summon both demons and heroes at will; with him all things were possible. JR had complete confidence in his abilities with the GB5 espresso machine, and I, as the official recorder of the Lost Goat Coffee House logbook, could document the entire process.

First we conceived of the sword fern. Our collective memories of the leaf were vague, so we dispatched Crazy Mike to the shoreside to collect for us one sword fern. He returned in minutes and laid the specimen on the counter. Cristopher DeFarge, whom we now suspected might be a seer or a prophet, carefully felt the fern with his index finger, then ran his hands around the latte cup. To our knowledge he had never felt, smelled or tasted Felicity Hunter, but we could be sure he had neither seen nor heard her. He then sat at his table on the dais and removed his cross-stitching. Ernie, always nervous, paced the floor and talked aloud in his distinctive Mandar-English, bits and pieces of which suggested a mechanical solution to the challenge. JR, like a high diver, practiced the motions he would need to replicate in steamed milk the tapering leaves of the sword fern. I noted it all.

Thankfully, Ernie seemed to be making progress with the biggest challenge of all: Getting the finished drink to Miss Felicity Hunter without damage to the artwork and in sufficient time so as not to lose its heat. For purposes of documentaton, I carefully measured the temperature of a latte finished under normal circumstances and found it to be exactly 173.3 degrees F. This is considerably hotter than most establishments serve their lattes, but at Lost Goat Coffee House we take extreme pride (as bonafide participants in the specialty coffee business) in serving our drinks at optimal conditions. We knew (Liebeck v. McDonalds) that to serve coffee much hotter was to invite litigation, but we dared to push this envelope. Any cooler and the drinker is deprived the enjoyment of the range of aromatic and volatile compounds in properly roasted coffee served hot and then allowed to cool naturally. These compounds release their various ethers at different temperatures, so to enjoy them all, a drinker must begin at optimal temperature.

Basis for Ernie's contraption was a '27 Reo Flying Cloud. He had one available, its wheels removed and its chassis prepared for a process of conveyence he called shapeshifting, which he had learned from Chinese ancestors who devoted their lives to the study of thaumoctopus mimicus, an Indonesian fish species. As he began to explain the concept to us in his heavy accent, we became very excited for the possibilities. According to Ernie's experience, thaumoctopus mimicus has the ability to become like another fish species. The deception can come in handy when hungry; act like a tuna and -- boom! -- dinner arrives! Shapeshifting isn't normally used in transmogrifying lattes, but Ernie felt that the medium of the '27 Reo Flying Cloud could surmount the molecular recurrence issue. He cited an instance recorded during the Song Dynasty in which an aged hermit named Chang Kuo Lao utilized for similar purpose a donkey that could travel at incredible speed. If Ernie could get the '27 Reo prepared to use Chang's primordal vapor for fuel (and he said he intended to make use of Crazy Mike's demons), he could harness the same principle to transport JR's latte to Miss Felicity Hunter as expeditiously as turning a page of coffee house history.

Meanwhile, DeFarge was cross-stitching madly at his seat on the dais, his needles clacking loudly like his namesake in a Dickens novel. Occasionally he would grunt his deaf/blind syllables at us and we knew the Seer was making progress. When he eventually approached the counter and pointed to his pattern, we knew our deliverance was at hand: There in his cross-stitch pattern was a very large stage on which sat the likeness of Miss Felicity Hunter with a steaming cup and saucer in her hand!

JR pulled the shot and started the milk to steam, his hands moving before the GB5 like a charmer to a hissing cobra. He heated the 16-ounce ceramic latte cup to temperature, added the shot (incidentally, dear reader, all shots at Lost Goat Coffee House are doubles; we don't do singles), and added the steamed milk. Back and forth, as subtle as an afternoon breeze and Giverny, his graceful hand adjusted the stainless steel pitcher and before our eyes, huddled like acolytes around Dr. Jekyll, the image of a perfect sword fern took shape. Its likeness to the real fern that Crazy Mike had collected at the banks of Lake Eden was uncanny. For documentation, I measured the temperature of the completed drink -- 173.3 degrees Fahrenheit. Exactly.

JR carefully carried the ceramic saucer and cup -- no distractive cardbox box -- outside to Ernie's '27 Reo Flying Cloud, and placed it gently on a platform Ernie had rigged for this special occasion. We all stepped back, and with DeFarge's cross-stitch held in our fingers like players of the game called Ouija, we listened as Ernie recited the ancient phrases of the Chinese sorcerer Chang Kuo Lao. Then we watched in utter amazment as the perfect latte changed form, became one with the platform on the '27 Reo Flying Cloud, and the entire contraption moved backwards down the street toward the Lake Eden Center for the Performing Arts. With mouths still agape, we heard the phone ring in the shop seconds later and we suddenly snapped to our senses. JR ran for the phone and then covered the mouthpiece as he mouthed these words to us all:

"It's her! Perfect latte! Fern lovely! Piping hot!"

JR collected himself.

"You bet, Miss Hunter. Thank you. Break a leg, ma'am" he said calmly into the phone. "Break a leg, Miss Hunter." And hung up.

He poured a Misty Valley Yirgacheffe all around, and we stood in awe, savoring its blueberry aroma and replaying in our dazed minds the incredible event we had just witnessed -- caused! Crazy Mike's eyes darted all around and then he lifted his cup and barked, "Break a leg, Miss Hunter!"

"Break a leg!" we yelled in toast to ourselves.

"Break a leg!"

"Break a leh-egggg!"

Logbook 7: Encyclopedia - Part 2

That Eden Hills, Oregon, had become something of a retreat in the Cascade Mountains for artists, musicians and assorted intellectuals made it a perfect location for Lost Goat Coffee House.

Our place is situated between the jetties of Lake Eden Landing and the railroad yards where massive diesel-electric engines assemble trains of timber, hops, filberts and wheat to help satiate America's voracious appetite for Northwest commodities. Amid this base of commerce and adjacent to the medicinal waters of Lake Eden, Lost Goat Coffee House parked its La Marzocco GB/5 espresso machine, hung its distinctive shingle and welcomed thinkers and characters of every sort.

We are situated between nature at its best and commerce at its most ambitious. On a clear day you can see the pristine peaks of the Cascade. Mount Jefferson, the North, Middle and South Sister, Three-Fingered Jack and Mt. Washington are discernible in spring, and their snow-capped summits glisten in the afternoon sun. From the air, one can see a patchwork of clear-cut logging operations. The varying shades of green -- from lightest to darkest -- reveal the lifespan of the Northwest forest. The darkest greens are reserved for the now uncommon dots of old-growth forest, where massive firs with trunks bigger than a boxcar soar close to two hundred feet into the air.

The slopes of Eden Hills are populated with fine estates that testify to the glories of Oregon living and the prosperity of our town. Often including an acre or two, these homes, though grand, are unpretentious. Simple living always has been admired in Eden Hills, and those who make too much of a show of their wealth are scorned. At one time in its history, Eden Hills legislated sumptuary laws that prohibited the use of jewels and gold, placed a limit on funeral expenses, and restricted the use of motorized vehicles. Granted this was during a time of zealous Victorian simplicity, but these laws nonetheless established local mores for decades to come. More ambitious cities, especially Eugene, regarded these laws as invasive of human liberty, but the counter-argument was (and is) that lavish living is anathema to happiness and a paved road to bankruptcy. Occasionally in a corner at Lost Goat Coffee House, one can hear the debate rehashed in modern terms, and for the student of local history the perspective is highly enlightening, if only vaguely entertaining. Consider that a turn-of-the-century visitor to Eden Hills once wrote in an Eastern newspaper that our town then was "rich because of its liberty and its commerce and often sees everything around it in flames without being in any way affected."

Government in Eden Hills is highly progressive, and to the extent that nationalistic boundary allows, quite apart from the norm, and definitely in contrast to our larger and more ambitious neighbor, Eugene (how often the residents of that town must thank their lucky stars that their founder wasn't named Ralph!). Eden Hills stops short of being sovereign, although recent scholarship traces its history to a band of Native Americans called the Kalpooyas. If such a fact could be documented, Eden Hills could claim sovereignty and build a casino. (The public relations problem, of course, would be to reconcile the placidity of Lake Eden with the garish layout of a modern Indian casino -- noble savage indeed! See Lake Tahoe.)

Where most Oregon cities elect city or town councils, Eden Hills blazed its own trail with respect to the concept of representative government. One of its early leaders, borrowing his ideas from Rousseau, eschewed the notion of representative government and advocated instead for direct government of the people. For the first 20 years of its existence, Eden Hills held monthly meetings in an outdoor log pavilion near Lake Eden Landing. Residents would elect a meeting manager who would call the assembly to order, and the creation of a vocalized agenda would commence from among the participants. If accepted to the day's agenda, matters were then discussed in open and ultimately put before a direct vote of the people. But the population grew and the assemblies became large; town business no longer could be conducted efficiently. To address this problem, a Grand Council was eventually formed, and four syndics were elected. Scholars of European history will note that this system closely replicated that of some of 18th century Europe's most respected communities, among them Geneva itself.

Perhaps as a result of its foundation of direct, participatory government, Eden Hills hasn't been inclined to levy unnecessary taxes on its citizenry. Therefore, despite its wealth, its state is relatively weak. Other than for basic needs such as police and fire protection, infrastructure such as roads and bridges, a dependable ferry system, and public services limited to free, compulsory education and a public library system, Eden Hills taxpayers have balked at most other progressive ideas.

Its library is grand. Located among the bustling commerce area of Lake Eden Landing, the library contains more than 110,000 volumes. Not to be overshadowed by modern methods of enlightenment, the library has been among Oregon's most aggressive at providing access to the world wide web.

Its early history, however, was troubled. As library proponents expanded access to common knowledge, early church leaders fretted that the collection included several books that, in their view, weakened the populace's understanding of its Lord, which had, in their view, been most precisely described by John Calvin. When a grand new building was proposed to house the growing book collection, church leaders, who wielded political power from their pulpits, threatened to derail the project unless a committee of their choosing could be formed to review each volume of the collection.

Fearing the worst, city leaders, headed by a free-thinking scholar named Jonathon Volatari, worked out a compromise, and the building even today evidences the result. Volatari was willing to concede to the church leaders an element of their doctrine in return for the freedom to stock the library's shelves with "all literature and science known to man." Volatari's reasoning was that irrespective of the church fathers' dictum, the people would find their own way with up-to-date information and a free flow of ideas. He feared not so much the church's preachments as its power to censor and withhold ideas.

Church leaders, while recognizing their concession of editorial control, reasoned that the public pulpit afforded them by the inscription over the entrance doors of a grand public library would both trump and shape the populace's hunger for ideas. They eagerly endorsed Volatari's idea, and set to work on a Latin inscription suitable to their doctrine. The unexpected outcome, to which Volatari and his supporters had irreversibly committed, was the precise wording of the inscription. Volatari had not anticipated that church leaders would focus their rare opportunity for broad public exposure (a modern equivalent would be television) on their primary disagreement with Rome. They came up with a cleverly worded notation that includes (in Latin, thankfully!) the assertion that the pope is "The Antichrist."

Not surprisingly, this has been the subject of considerable debate over the years in Eden Hills, if not a blight on its otherwise honorable intellectual history. For one thing, the church and the state can hardly be separated (an American First Amendment priniciple, still) if a public building in a peaceful Oregon community so boldly takes sides in an epochal division in church history. Secondly, the Catholics in our town aren't too happy about the disrespect shown the leader of their church. And thirdly, the more zealous of the modern protestant churches, themselves grown somewhat insular by the inane claims of religious zeal frequently heard from today's political leaders in Washington, have a variety of other suggestions when it comes to naming the Antichrist.

It's unlikely the inscription will survive, and for many of us at Lost Goat Coffee House, the animated arguments over the issue will be missed, primarily because we fear the topics that might replace them.

Logbook 6: Encyclopedia - Part 1

Eden Hills, Oregon, lies at 44 degrees 21 seconds north of the equator and 122 degrees 57 minutes and 48 seconds west of the prime meridian. It's easier to drive the I-5 south from Portland a couple of hundred miles and keep going past Goshen. It's not hard to spot.

The city was founded by Eugene Skinner as a back-up to the successful city that now bears his given name and which is located at the southern end of the Willamette Valley. A conservative and cautious man, Skinner built Eugene and Eden Hills at the same time, in case one of them, due to natural catastrophe or pestilence, failed. Eugene (the city) prospered and today is the home of the University of Oregon football team. Eden Hills doesn't have a football team, but it is regarded as an arts and cultural center and is sometimes referred to as "Geneva of the Northwest." It was formerly known as Skinner, but the name was changed by popular vote in 1956 after the Los Angeles Times published an article about oddly named American cities and suggested Skinner, Oregon, owed its name to the popular Northwest pastime of hunting deer and elk and dressing them in the wild. For many of the sensitive souls of Eden Hills, the image was frankly unbearable. Unfortunately for Eugene Skinner, only one city in Oregon now has the honor of bearing his name.

The city is situated on two hills, at the foot of Lake Eden. It is the lake which provides the most prominent topographical feature and which has been the central source of beauty, inspiration and economic development. Because it is navigable by small craft and provides access to larger ports in the Northwest, Lake Eden has become a popular inland landing. The lake is approximately 18 leagues long and four to five leagues wide. It is fed by the Eden River, which empties into it on the south. The Eden River continues northward, and it eventually empties into the mighty Columbia.

While shipping and international trade aren't part of the Eden Hills economy, it is the center of a market microcosm with all the trappings and complexities of a center of commerce. Colorful markets dot the areas around Lake Eden where forests of Douglas fir and hemlock have been carved back to make room for them. Goods produced in such exotic places as China, Japan or Indonesia can be purchased at many of the markets, along with such items as locally grown produce, blueberries, soap and organic home brew. On any given Saturday, the markets bustle with activity as vendors set up their shops and peddle their wares. Wide varieties of food are available, representing many different ethnic regions and suggesting Eden Hills' interest in and ties to the rest of our world.

The city has an opera, a symphony orchestra, a repertory theater and a wonderous indoor-outdoor performance hall at Lake Eden Landing, the most active of the outdoor market areas. In the summer, the city is home of the International Sergei Prokofiev Festival, during which an award is given each year to the scholar whose treatise most vividly explains the coincidence of Prokofiev's death and that of Joseph Stalin in 1953.

Eden Hills took neither its fame nor its fortune from timber, like so many other communities in its neighborhood. Because it was merely a back-up plan to a much more ambitious community, it depended instead on its wits to grow and prosper. With the arrival of the railroad, and its natural and valuable asset in Lake Eden, it soon became both economically viable and a highly desireable, Eden-like venue. Intellectuals, artists, musicians and journalists drifted to Eden Hills, seeking rest and the medicinal values of the clear waters of Lake Eden. In the post Enlightenment period following the American Civil War, much thought was required to reconcile the ideas of "noble savage" postulated by Rousseau and the elitist freedoms so acidly advocated by Voltaire. Where else but in the American West could one come to think through, while relaxing along the clear waters of Lake Eden, the vagaries of empowering the masses?