A season of commuting began, Neil driving his red Volkswagon sedan between Boston and Camperdene. On his first day at the museum, in mid-September, he rose early and left the apartment just after 7:00 a.m. It was a cool, foggy morning. Fortunately, the traffic ran smooth on the Turnpike. It was smooth sailing straight west to Camperdene. He arrived at 9:00 sharp, even as Audrey Morris, Mary Tuchlein, and Julia Seymour-Stanton strolled up the cobblestone walkway to the edifice. It was so picture-perfect, they might have approached hand-in-hand, singing. Bald, hard-of-hearing Hayden Brown, the red-cheeked, red-suspendered custodian, was polishing the brass plates on the front doors. He let the four in. It was a regular morning ritual, the same duty performed every morning, Hayden's letting them in.

"Good morning, Hayden!"

"What?"

"Good morning!"

"Fine. How are you?"

Neil entered and made salutations and gestures of humility to the grandiose, high vaulted ceiling. Mary and Audrey gave him a tour. Audrey explained in some detail how the place had looked before recent renovations. At every turn, she stated disappointment and enthusiasm together. The situation at present was both good and bad. She told Neil months later she'd been intimidated by his combined youthfulness and authority. She said she'd been afraid of saying the wrong thing, and so had covered her ground, saying whatever came to mind that seemed to have a nice ring to it.

Quiet, diligent Mary Tuchlein had gone straight to her counter in the back room, repairing damaged items. Julia Seymour-Stanton went straight downstairs to start her work day. When Neil went down to have a look at her territory, she was busy helping two mothers with homework assignments given their seven year olds. She was pleasant, matter-of-fact, informed, informative.

Two of the Search Committee members, Captain Powderkeg Cunningham -- local character, chairman of the Historical Commission, organizer of the library's historical records -- and Carla Spagnoli -- chatty, concerned, adamant, always out and about running errands in her red Cadillac, which carried her like a ladybug in a galleon -- but never very far from the museum -- were busy in coming and going -- doing just what of import Neil couldn't make out -- throughout the day.

Things went on like this, Neil driving, writing, and apartment hunting when not at either The Museum of the Year 1912 or The Boston Museum of the New Physics, all mixed up with eating, shaving, showering, eating, procreating, sleeping, dreaming.

He wore himself down, writing and driving, running between school and jobs, listening to stories, answering inquiries, finding answers. He sought out all the information he could find about the year 1912, familiarized myself with institutional rigamarole, got to know staff members' quirks and bents, learned the ropes. In Neil's office, in the room behind the stately front fireplace, he studied the files left by his predecessors: he figured out how bills were paid, he read job descriptions, he learned about former and present volunteers, he did his homework -- he got the hang of things. Audrey was eager, each day, to tell him more -- and ever more -- about the place: how it once had been, what it had become, and about all the patrons, the people who frequented the museum, how things had run through the years.

At staff meetings, Audrey, Mary, Julia, Hayden joined him in cooking up ideas for activities, learning, fun. They brought in local storytellers, artists, folksingers.On October 20, the Camperdene Daily Journal told of a curator "planning to bring the historic Museum of the year 1912 into the 21st century while maintaining its commitment to serving the people in the community. Neil Wright wants to get more community involvement; he wants to draw more people in."

On October 27th, the Camperdene Daily Journal announced, a "Get Acquainted" reception: "The members of the Search Committee of The Museum of the Year 1912 invite the public to meet Neil Oppenheimer Wright, the new director, and his family, on Sunday from 3 to 5 p.m. Refreshments will be served."

Early the next morning the chair of the Association's defunct Search Committee, Carla Spagnoli, telephoned the offices of the Journal and railed at them, demanding a correction. The correction appeared the next day: "A gathering Sunday for Neil Oppenheimer Wright, the new curator of the Museum of the Year 1912, is by invitation only."

The reception was an elegant affair, the opulence and smooth functioning of which was not disrupted except by the presence of Eddie Johnson, who was said to be a bookie, a bum who used the library as his workplace, to close his deals. Eddie had showed up uninvited, mixed and mingled, and left, but not without first filling his blue windbreaker pockets and blue baseball cap with snacks. The other new fellow in town, Jack Morrison, the Lutheran minister, dipped heavily into the punch, spiced by the vodka he'd brought with him in a flask, had sat with Eddie all afternoon, smiling and raising his cup to the distinguished guests passing silently by on their high horses, as it were.

That afternoon he came up with the bright idea that, until Neil got an apartment in town, he should come live with him in "the German neighborhood," in the Lutheran Parish House. Minna agreed to it, noting this arrangement was going to be very temporary. So Neil moved to Camperdene, paving the way for being joined there by his wife and child. His host, the Lutheran Minister, Pastor Morrison, drank vodka morning, noon, and night. There was beer enough for legions, armies, entire countries, in the fridge. The television was left on at all hours -- noise. The house was in total disarray.

"Mi Casa is su Casa," he assured Neil. Some Casa! In Jack was an inner disarray similar to the disarray of the house the Church had provided him, in which, he said, he did not feel at home. The congregation had brought him in, he said, and then left him to sort things out. He only seemed to see people when he preached at the Church on Sunday. No one came to visit or help him the other days of the week, and he felt this was totally hypocritical.

Neil shared his thoughts with Jack. He said he thought the expectation was that Jack should venture out and visit others, ministering to them. He said he would, in time -- so soon as he could get his bearings.

On Halloween evening Jack scared the daylights out of the kids that dared approach the Parish House porch. He dressed up as Count Dracula in a three piece suit with fingernails that looked like railroad spikes and assured the kiddies, ominously, as he put black and crimson jelly beans in their bags, "Don't worry, I won't kill you."

Jack was talkative. He told Neil all about himself, his youth, his attendance at a divinity school in the mid-west, his internship in Kansas, the differences between the many and assorted protestant religions and the reasons why the Lutheran religion is the one true religion, the religion for which his love flows over. He refilled his cup of vodka three or four times and began losing track of the days of his youth, then reeled off, around midnight, each night, to bed.

This idyllic season in the house that Jack had on loan to him was cut short when Captain Cunningham came up with a lead on an apartment he thought Neil would like. It was new, not expensive, and within walking distance to and from the Musuem and Library.

Minna and Mark drove out to look at it. The two Buchans signed the lease that same afternoon. Minister Morrison, Eddie the Bookie, and The Captain and two of his daughters, Gabbie and Lizzie -- motley crew! -- helped them unload the U-Haul truck.

At their first Camperdene Thanksgiving, Neil's nomad parents showed up. His mother brought his son Mark got a nice new shirt to wear. He tried it on and found it not to his liking. Wrinkled. His grandpa suggested he ask grandma if she'd iron it. "What is that?" Mark asked.

"What is what?"

"Iron it."

"Oh," Neil's father said. "That means to press it -- to get an iron and get it good and hot and flatten out clothes."

Mark went off in search of his grandma. "Grandma," he requested "can you make my shirt flat?"

Neil's car overheated on the way to the airport, so they took a taxi, leaving the Volkswagen on the Expressway, which enlivened his father tremendously, but didn't sit well with his son, who insisted you don't leave a car parked on the parkway. "Lighten up," advised the grandfather, tickling his stern, fuming grandson.

The Volkswagen went to a junkyard. The Wrights bought a used navy blue Dodge Caravan. Minna, Mark, and Neil lived off the leftovers from his mother's superb Thanksgiving feast for weeks and weeks afterwards -- breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Santa Claus showed up on skis for the Library's Christmas celebration. He helped string popcorn, cranberries, clove apples, and paper chains from the Christmas tree. Wallace Barrow, in a three-piece suit and a red carnation, thanked everyone for coming, and introduced Camperdene's Superintendent of Schools, Michael Bonaventura, who read from the poem "A visit from St. Nicholas." The High School choir sang selections from Handel's Messiah..

There was no visible ill-will anywhere.

The new year brought a resolution. Neil assured Wallace Barrow he'd see to it that the Association's many and various committees -- Artifacts and Collections Development, Computer Services, Building and Grounds, Preservation -- would all meet, and would be meeting regularly through the coming year.

The Artifacts and Collections Development Committee met in mid-March, and began facing important decisions concerning the museum: What policies should exist concerning the management of it? How should its collections best be displayed? What should be the curator's working relationship with other heads of institutions holding similar and/or related collections?

In the course of that year came several Museum exhibits: musical instruments dating from the year 1912, a display of some of the older and rarer of Captain Powderkeg Cunningham's personal collection of Arts & Crafts style bookends, and a series of exhibits concerning "The Art of the Book from the Year 1912 to the Present Day" -- papers and papermaking, printing, printmaking, bookbinding, and calligraphy. One of the country's preeminent bookbinders, Camperdene's own Nicholas Wentworth, put some of his best work on display, and made an appearance one evening to talk about his work. Other notable printers and bookbinders in town soon followed suit, helping to coordinate a year-long series of displays and discussions and presentations at the Library.

In March, a well-regarded colorful local character, the salt-and-pepper-bearded unofficial town historian, Museum Association Vice-President Captain Powderkeg Cunningham, took it upon himself to announce to the press that, with his help, the new Museum Curator would begin the laborious task of cataloguing the museum's collections, archives, and library holdings.

Of course it fell to Neil to compile a list of these holdings. He searched diligently through drawers, cabinets, storage cases and shoe boxes in search of any lists of holdings compiled by his predecessors (or anyone else) and, through photocopying (in conjunction with scissors and glue), prepared for Captain Cunningham and the reporters an initial list.