It was late morning on Campobello Island and Daphne Longhandle was wrapped
around a wind-blown juniper that overhung the slate beach where I had parked
for a snooze. Daphne had little black wings and yard after yard after yard of
muscular, scaly tail. Her snout was crusted with a slithery substance that had
to be mucus, dragon snot.
“You are a summer person,” Daphne sighed. “I always know when it’s summer—people
with brown knees, backpacks and nowhere to go. They mill about and take pictures.
I have never been anyplace, mostly.”
Waiting for low tide, I had parked my car on the beach. Or what passed for a
beach on Campobello—gray slate, shale and boulders. I had been dozing in the
sun, my head hanging loosely out the window of my rental car. A steep drop to
the ocean lined a narrow, curving road of many switchbacks with neat houses
and wild gardens of hollyhocks and ditch roses, goldenrod, fireweed and purple
loosestrife.
Oh yes, I am Harry Bronson, semi-retired editor of the Sauk City Sentinel,
the newspaper of record in south-central Wisconsin. The Sentinel boasts
a devoted albeit shrinking readership. As the paper doesn’t like its supernumeraries
shuffling about and getting under foot, sabbaticals were mine for the asking.
I had taken two months off to see lighthouses in
“What we’re talking here is hopes and aspirations, Bronson,” said Daphne Longhandle.
“Eleanor Roosevelt, f’rinstance. She is one of those reserved public women whose
depths of passion are only revealed on close examination. And again of course,
there is her famous macaroni and cheese recipe...”
“Eleanor...”
“Eleanor—the same. I can see how
The story of Daphne Longhandle rightly begins ninety-plus years earlier with
a tall, angular young woman standing on a dock.
“
Franklin, an assistant secretary of the Navy, tacked over to an anchor buoy,
belayed his sloop and swam to the dock. Eleanor’s macaroni and cheese was legend.
She added nutmeg with onions and chives.
The previous evening they had stayed up late to watch the night sky together,
a romantic moment. That, too, had been a macaroni and cheese night. By then,
of course, it was too late. It was in the eyes, a secret knowledge. Some women
do that, you know. You could ask them what they are keeping hidden and even
they couldn’t tell you. It is a gift.
“See that,
The husband followed the direction of his wife’s upraised finger.
“That’s O’Brien,” said Eleanor.
“Oops, sorry.” Eleanor nodded at the constellation, O’Brien, and the fourth
star blinked out. “I have renamed it after Mister O’Brien—Adelbert?—that nice
man who rows the groceries over from Eastport?”
“How did you do that?” asked
“My secret,” said Eleanor. “Smell the nutmeg?” Another secret of Eleanor’s,
that macaroni and cheese recipe.
“Ahem.” Daphne was waiting for a reply.
Eyes closed, I stretched and scratched then lolled against the dashboard, my
head cradled in my arms. “Wake me when it's over.”
“Would you like to hear my joke?” Did I tell you Daphne had a keen sense of
humor? “It's about a knight. Saint George. You look a little like him, you know?
But it's been a while.”
“And you have seen him, I suppose? Saint George?” I opened one eye for a peek.
“Joke. Umph...” I closed the eye quickly.
“
“Bless you,” said the dragon.
“Thank you. Ouch.” I had a welt at the base of my neck from the door handle.
“There you are,” said the dragon.
“Where, exactly, am I?” I said. In the mud below the road’s steep shoulders,
the ribs of a barge eaten by shipworm looked like a beached whale.
“Sleeping away a glorious sunny day on your fat fanny in a tin can with no oatmeal
cookies while I haven't had a good night's sleep since Franklin Roosevelt broke
his promise.”
“FDR?
“Of course in person. That he and Eleanor would visit some day. You think we
get a lot of telephone calls here? Charley doesn't believe in me. But we talk.”
“Charley?”
“Charley O’Brien. The lighthouse keeper. Macaroni and cheese is his best shot
in the galley. Should be, I taught him the same recipe I taught Eleanor. Wipes
the lens, fires up the generator when we get a nor'easter. You know—a lighthouse
keeper. He gets a month off a year. The lighthouse goes on automatic then. This
is Charley’s vacation. Soon it will be automatic all the time. No Charley. Nobody
at all. I shall go stark, screaming bonkers.”
“We were talking about FDR and a promise he made you. The FDR?”
“Franklin Delano Roosevelt, the very same,” she said. “Of course, that was when
he used to come here, to the island.” There was a wistful sigh. “We had some
good times. That young Eleanor was some cookie. A definite babe. Franklin and
Eleanor were summer people—light housekeepers, not lighthouse keepers...”
Arrgh, arrgh, arrgh!
The dragon erupted in spasms. I supposed it was laughter. Her breath reeked
of cigars. “Eleanor was a looker. You should have seen her when she was eighteen.”
“Eleanor Roosevelt...” I recalled the photos of the First Lady I had seen in
grade school—liverish complexion and a pouchy face like a cake fallen in the
oven. “...you mentioned knowing Eleanor Roosevelt and St. George? Both?” There
was a massive slithering as of construction machinery and the dragon unwrapped
herself from the tree. The tiny wings were sort of pitiful against her bulk.
“I did. I just know I did,” said the dragon. The creature's huge eyes flashed
lime green highlights, verdigris and gold: a summer housefly buzzing at the
window. “I distinctly heard myself say just that thing—Eleanor Roosevelt, she
was hot stuff. Of course the nutmeg helped.”
Until I met Daphne Longhandle, I figured dragons tended to eat whatever came
along. The macaroni and cheese was a bewilderment. I decided it was time for
the formalities, so I extended a hand.
“Bronson, Harry Bronson, emeritus editor of the Sauk City Sentinel.”
“I am Daphne Prydferthbwytawrganawyreni. PRYD-ferth, bwy-TAW gan, are-ANY. It’s
Welsh. Damned if I know how Mom got her talons on a Welsh dictionary. It’s a
dragon thing, I guess. I was abandoned early on. Mom went west with a crew of
migrating geese.
“PRYD-ferth, bwy-TAW-gan, are-ANY,” repeated the dragon. “I am told it means
beautiful eater of airplanes. See, even fresh from the egg I had my future all
mapped out for me. We don’t even get to choose our own names. Dragons are a
lot like you humans in that. Daphne is my favorite nymph, however,” she added.
“Prydferthbit... That is a mighty long handle, gets my tongue all tangled up
with my dental work. Suppose I call you Daphne Longhandle?”
“Panache, I like that. But just Daphne will do.”
“How do you do, Daphne?”
“Pleased to meet you, Harry Bronson. Likewise, I am sure. I am the last of my
kind—après moi le déluge and all. Unless Mom met up with Mr. Right amongst
all those geese. Hardly seems likely. Does it to you?”
It didn’t, and I had to say so. “I am only one of your summer people. Here to
see the lighthouse,” I said.
“Then surely you have heard about Saint George and the dragon. Well, I'm the
dragon,” said the dragon. “Only three—the Blessed George, Eleanor and you have
been able to see me. Consider yourself pretty lucky,” said the dragon. “Let’s
go somewhere comfy and chat,” the creature said almost as an afterthought.
“Uhn, I don't think we can go to my place.”
“Well? Weren’t you coming to mine?” Her logic was irrefutable; we were up and
moving. The pattern of the car's upholstery was embossed on my sunburned legs.
“Summer person,” she said.
The dragon strolled along by my side. Along and along and along. Because of
Daphne's size I had to abandon the car on the beach, above the tide line. We
went to my place.
“Come on, Bronson, push.”
“I am pushing. You've got to help. Flap your wings or something.”
Daphne breathed a sigh 45 yards long. “You will have to excuse me if I'm a bit
gassy—all that macaroni and cheese.” She shrugged and fluttered her tiny wings.
Then lurched forward. “Ooh! I’m in!” From inside the room there was a crash
as chintz, lamps and dried flower arrangements went flying. I fell off the borrowed
stepladder and barely saved my nose from getting bashed by grabbing at a window
box. A clump of petunias came loose and hung dejectedly. I dusted myself off,
righted the ladder and climbed in after her. I listened at the door. Pinned
to the inside was a placard: Rules for Innkeepers. No Pets. Installed in, around
and under the cozy ruffled chintz four-poster in my room was a dragon, a myth.
“I hate to be a bother, but you wouldn't have a match would you, Bronson?” the
dragon asked hopefully. Between her bared fangs was installed the now-defunct
butt of a thick, black cigar. “If you are a non-smoker, some dahlias or macaroni
and cheese would be just dandy,” said Daphne. “As I may have mentioned, I taught
Charley Eleanor’s macaroni and cheese recipe. The surefire one with nutmeg,
guaranteed to turn men’s knees to jelly? No effect on Charley. He’s the great-grandson
of Adelbert O’Brien, by the way.”
“Adelbert O’Brien?”
“The same. Eleanor renamed a constellation after him. I showed her how to excise
unwanted stars, too, a neat trick.” The dragon scratched her ear with a foot.
We sat together on or near the sofa while Daphne told me the tale of Eleanor
and Franklin that you read at the beginning of this story.
“Level with me,” said Daphne Prydferthbwytawrganawyreni. “I’ve got some dahlias
waiting. You clearly come from an adventuresome stock. Why, then, do I put you
off? Don't spare my feelings. Equanimity is my middle name. If I had a middle
name.”
“You really knew Eleanor and FDR?” was the best I could come up with.
“And the kids. If they saw me, they didn’t give a never-mind. But Eleanor saw
me. I was wrapped around the lighthouse, basking. She didn’t faint away as was
the practice then. She walked right up and struck up a conversation. A lot of
spine, that girl.” The dragon swiveled her head a full 180 degrees to admire
her tail. “Now it’s only Charley, macaroni and cheese and the occasional raid
on Eleanor’s dahlias,” she said. “I do get to hankering after Eleanor’s prize
dahlias. Mighty tasty with jam.”
“You have jam at the lighthouse?”
“No, only macaroni and cheese. I have to pretend.”
In bed that night,
A muzzy “mmph,” a waft of nutmeg-scented breath, then a long languorous stretch.
“All women do it, dear,” said Eleanor.
“It is a mystery. As Assistant Secretary of the Navy you won’t have the time
or energy to experiment with each and every one of us. Therefore I shall have
to do.”
“Wha..?” said the Assistant Secretary of the Navy.
“I am a woman ahead of her time; don’t worry about it,” said Eleanor.
“I meant the star. You made it go out.”
“Only a trick. A fiddle-faddle a friend showed me. Somebody I met on the island.”
“A man?”
“Jealous? Mmm, yummy. No, a woman actually. Daphne is her name.”
“
“See many?”
“Nope. No planes. Ever. He forgot to tell me who were the bad guys and who were
the good guys so it wouldn’t have made much difference.
“You most certainly did.” My eyes were watering and my sinuses screamed for
relief. I was enveloped in a cloud of noxious blue smoke as Daphne sucked a
last remaining spark into life. “Where do you get your cigars?”
“They’re Cuban, a gift from Winston Churchill; and to tell you the truth, I’m
about out.
“What you are coughing up is Winston’s last cigar,” called Daphne. “It’s over
sixty years old.”
“So am I,” I replied. “And I was hoping for sixty-two.” The dragon opened the
bathroom door with a flick of her tail and chucked the last inch of her cigar
into the toilet.
Franklin and Elliot were up on the summer porch putting the final touches
on a model biplane.
“
“Nell?” Her husband looked up from an adjustment he was performing on a miniature
aileron cable.
“I have decided to ask Adelbert O’Brien to put in a flower garden.”
“That’s nice. Go right ahead.”
“Dahlias, I think, the dinnerplate variety. Daphne is especially fond of dinnerplate
dahlias.”
“Ah, the mysterious Daphne. When will I get to see her?” asked Franklin Roosevelt.
“That eventuality must reside in the company of the imponderables,” replied
Eleanor, who as a girl had shone at declamatory presentation. She turned to
where the children's play had become rowdy. “Annie! Don’t push James; you are
so much bigger than he is.”
“I did so look forward to having some company,” said Daphne Prydferthbwytawrganawyreni.
“All I ever wanted was a family, a little egg all my own. Being the last of
my kind, the
I explained oatmeal cookies to Daphne Longhandle, Beautiful Eater of Airplanes.
She allowed as the cookies sounded delicious but put away pining for them to
a later date. For the moment her catalog of melancholy was full. “I haven’t
seen Eleanor much lately,” said Daphne.
“And Winston Churchill?” I asked. The dragon did not reply.
“Let’s go and visit her garden,” I said.
Frolicking on the
“Eleanor Roosevelt is dead.”
“I know that, silly.” Daphne wiped away a tear from the corner of a giant eye.
“But I have to hope. Life is a tradeoff: dahlias to nibble versus the hope of
Eleanor Roosevelt and Winston Churchill coming for a visit. The odds are pretty
slim, I know. Hopes and aspirations, Harry Bronson, remember?”
“I feel like a monster.”
“This is how we learn, Harry. You are the monster this time. Deeds and not appearances
define who we are.”
I picked a huge yellow dahlia from the garden and offered it to her. The dragon’s
lips gently accepted the flower. She munched thoughtfully. I picked two more
dahlias, one for her, one for me. We sat in the shade of an old tree to eat
our flowers. I thought, this tree shaded Eleanor and her children as they played
together generations ago. The tree, a surviving elm, reached out its branches
to a set of con trails high above the fair weather clouds.
“G’zork!”
Daphne was gently snoring. I went back to Eleanor’s garden for an armload of
dahlias.
“G’zork!”
My arms were laden with flowers. I gave her an ungentlemanly poke with my elbow.
“Huh? What? I must have dozed off. We are inveterate nappers, you and I, Harry
Bronson.”
“Daphne Longhandle, you have a great heart and in that heart lies your great
beauty. Please accept these dahlias, courtesy of the Campobello International
Park Commission. May I come to your lighthouse and watch for airplanes with
you?”
“Well... Charley is away, but I think it would be all right. There’s some leftover
macaroni and cheese in the fridge.”
“About Winston Churchill...”
“I’d rather not hear any more. Thank you for the lovely afternoon.”
She shrugged her rudimentary wings and turned to leave.
“If I could fly, maybe I could come and visit you, Harry Bronson.”
I explained that the
“Do the geese fly there?”
“They do indeed, then turn south down the
And that was that. We ambled along side by side to the far end of the island
where young Eleanor had sailed with
Eighty-three feet high, the lighthouse was painted with
We watched the sky until sunset. And said goodbye. “I would so love to get a
piece of mail addressed to me—me personally,” were Daphne Longhandle’s last
words as we made our farewells. “Those postal cards with the pictures. The summer
people buy them. They are so beautiful, particularly the pictures of my lighthouse
with the big, red cross and the shiny glass lens. I would save your letters
in my scrapbook. Is it all right for me to keep a scrapbook? Not presumptuous,
I mean. I have saved clippings from the newspapers—pictures of Eleanor and Franklin.
And the children. I get a sense of time passing by watching the pages yellow
and shrivel.”
I pointed to a con trail miles above, a jetliner turning toward
“Not quite the same thing as feeling the wash of the propellers against your
face, is it, Bronson?”
“No, not the same.”
“Bronson?”
“Yes?”
“I had thought you might ask me along with you on your travels. But this is
my lighthouse. I have to stay.
It was an election year in the
I took a break from the harangues of the Farmer-Labor Party and, instead of
heading for the nearest watering hole, ended up at an outdoor flea market—antiques,
collectibles, ephemera and junk, the usual stuff. Couples slumped behind their
offerings.
“You will write to me?” the dragon had asked.
“Of course.” Well, a promise was a promise.
An oldies station blasted from speakers mounted on light poles. The tune was
Stealers Wheel’s Stuck in the Middle with You. Behind a table of antique
postcards, a woman with lacquered bangs and iridescent nail polish sang along
with the radio. Her husband was passed out in a folding lawn chair, beer in
hand.
“Well, if you’ve got to get stuck,” she gripped the table and stared me straight
in the eye, “...the middle is a pretty good place. When it comes down to push
or shove, like.” She dissolved in a puddle of giggles.
I took this as an invitation to browse.
Shoeboxes of old postcards were arranged by Travel and Events. I bought the
first Ferris wheel from the Colombian Exposition in
Whenever I stopped for the night, I mailed a postcard.
And I got none.
“Dear, look, little Annie is working on a scrapbook.”
“Hmmm,”
“Postcards. Very pretty.”
Although he had reports to read, his golden-haired daughter was the apple of
“Look, daddy. Here’s one with our lighthouse,” said his daughter. “It has a
funny address.”
“
The honking of migrating geese makes me look up when our Midwestern autumn
comes. It twists young and burly round the chimney corners with the first maple
leaves of another fall, and I am called out for one last time to rake the yard
and bundle up my roses for winter. I keep a special stash of large, rank, delicious
cigars for just this time.
On the off-chance that my Beautiful Eater of Airplanes has found her wings I
mix up a double batch of oatmeal cookies and smoke on the porch. I have never
figured out how the young
copyright 2008 Rob Hunter
Daphne Longhandle’s Last Flight was first published in The Aputamkon Review, Les Simon and Sarah Dalton Phillips, editors.
All content on this website, unless otherwise noted, is licensed under a Creative Commons License
