The Window – A True History

Not too often, but a time or two, I find myself in a church. The local Episcopal church had a new window that needed some sort of dedicating, and they got themselves a Bishop come all the way from California for the job—a difficult and perilous journey at best. As newly appointed editor of Virginia City’s finest newspaper and foremost conveyor of newsworthy information in the whole Territory of Nevada, it was my duty, among other more personal interests, to attend and gather the facts of this important event dear to both the social and spiritual life of the mostly heathen riffraff that inhabited the place—not the church, the city, of course. Nobody inhabits a church—they aren’t fixed up for 24 hour use with beds scattered among the pews, spittoons alongside the hymnals, or chamber pots in the Narthex. To my way of thinking, a church is but a temporary holding pen. On any given Sunday, folks, I’ve noticed, approach it slowly in all seriousness, a drawn resignation written all over their faces, then somebody shuts the door on them. After a spell, the door opens, and these same folks come pouring out, all smiles, seeming happy to have escaped their captivity and be out again in the sunshine and fresh air. That’s my considered interpretation, and it has given me a number of puzzling pauses in my reflections on humanity.

Now this window of high interest was kept from public view upon its arrival, was installed away from prying eyes, and been fully covered waiting on this grand occasion for its revelation. It had been made by an outfit back in New York City, Tiffany and Sons by name, if my notes are correct. I had earlier been back East for a spell and been invited to a rather ostentatious residence for the occasion of drink and cigars, in a room given over to this civilized activity only. There in the wall of that room was a large, stained glass window from this Tiffany outfit. I remember it well, as it nearly took the breath right out of me, which was not wanted as I was about to light a very good Havana. In full color, amidst vines and suggestive fruits and flowers, was a half-naked woman, one breast aglow with a purity and intensity not found in nature. You can understand my personal curiosity and anticipation concerning this new window in the church and why I had not given this assignment over to a mere reporter.

The church filled to overflowing and the service was long. The imported Bishop gave a fine dedication sermon, about how this window had been called into the Lord’s service just as he had been called. I don’t think this true, but I had to give the poor wearied traveler the benefit of the doubt; he had, after all, been called to our fair city. He did a bit of Bible reading, from prepared notes, about how when one is called he must forsake all others; he even mentioned letting the dead bury the dead—that being a real conundrum to me and made me almost miss the rest of his sermon as it put my imagination to work in a terrifying way.

We all waited expectantly for the great unveiling, and mercifully it did come. As the cloth coverings came off, inside and out, there was a collective gasp from the attendees, myself included. It was not a brilliantly lighted, fig-leafed Eve that appeared before me, rather a larger-than-life, blonde blue-eyed Jesus facsimile, fully clothed, with a lamb tucked under one arm and the other wrapped around a long stick, the purpose of which escaped me. There were cheers and thunderous hand-clapping all around. I thought the window had missed the mark. Eve would have put more people in the pews and greatly increased the Sunday offering. I immediately found other business pressing and left. I could finish my column factually just as easily in my office along with a spot of overdue refreshment.

The window became The Window and was the pride of the city and a good chunk of the Territory—much admired, it was. There’s something comforting about windows. You’d of thought that all the other windows in that consecrated edifice would have developed some poor feelings, given the competition they were up against—that in the deliberate snubs of their decent, ordinary duty they might have gone mad with jealousy and refused to let the light through. But these windows held fast to their intended purpose and never caused nobody any trouble whatsoever, other than the need of a good washing now and then. Even so, they never asked for it. Steady as a rock, they were, always letting light look in and eyes look out, the latter commonplace among the children during services. Good windows they were.

I say ‘they were’ as it was not long after that this temple to the Lord caught fire. When the alarm went up, a multitude rushed to the site, some to help, more to watch. Pyrotechnics were much appreciated entertainments in the Territory. I had my reporter’s notebook at the ready and scribbled furiously. Above the crowd, the Vicar was shouting “Save The Window! Save The Window!” I approached His Sacredness for his thoughts on what was transpiring, but he took no proper notice of my query. He simply said, “You idiot!” struck my notebook from my hand and thrust a crowbar into it. With a forceful, two-armed shove, full body weight behind it, he propelled me to The Window. There I joined in with others similarly outfitted; in no time we had The Window out, fully intact, unharmed, and with much applause and deafening hurrahs moved it to a temporary position of safety.

I then went looking for my notebook and found it right where the Vicar parted it from me. I again approached His Grace and asked if I could have a few of his reflections on the conflagration before him. I don’t think he heard me properly, as only indistinguishable sputterings came out of his strangely contorted lips. Satisfied, I scribbled his response in my notebook, left out the useless sputterings and replaced them with words suitable to the occasion. I then asked of His Holiness should we not try to save the other windows, too, and all the Bibles still inside? Seemed a pity to leave all those other faithful windows out of the rescue, and Holy Writ seemed equally deserving, if not more, given the moral slippage so obviously manifest in the general population. He responded rather forcefully, “You fool! Other windows can be replaced, and Bibles, too! The Window cannot!” He then knocked my notebook from my hand and thrust into it a handle attached to a bucket.

Given the heat of the present environment, I could, and did (though quite some time later) excuse the Vicar’s un-Christian behavior and overall uncharacteristic use of the English language. I passed the bucket on to another (poor fellow) and escaped back to my editor’s office to collect myself from all the excitement and overpowering emotional distress I was feeling, and for some needed refreshment. To this day, I take pride in having saved The Window, and my column of that day prominently reflected my heroic actions.

I understood the Vicar when he said that the other windows could be replaced, but I did not understand him when he added this also held true for the Bibles. Replaced by what? I have made an ongoing, now extensive, list of possible spiritual substitutions, but have yet to settle on one—there are so many contenders. I think I am getting close, but time will tell.

The Window is still in Virginia City, now prominently enshrined in a new, dressed stone structure of quality, and has affixed near it a shiny brass plaque relating the harrowing history of its rescue. My complaint is that I, so important to this artifact’s preservation, who risked life, hand, and eyebrows for it, have been left out of the account. I have not yet heard back from my letter requesting that this oversight be amended. Perhaps my request would have been better received had I offered to pay for the correction and enclosed one of those replaceable Bibles.

[I am pleased to bring the true history of this significant Territorial event to your attention]
M.T. (deceased)