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ST fanfic: True Grits
Star Trek, in the new movie's AU though it helps if you've seen The Final Frontier. Leonard McCoy decides to show some friends around his home town. McCoy, his Mama, Kirk, Spock, Uhura, and the Tree That Owns Itself. The Tree is real, as are the various musicians referred to. Everyone else is fictional.
“The first part of our shore leave coincides with AthFest. Y'all can't pass that up. Besides, you'll get to see the town that produced the likes of me.”
Uhura's eyes lit up. “That's the music festival, right?”
“Yes, ma'am. The finest in the land. Been going on for centuries now...well, with a few interruptions. They take over the whole city, not that Athens is that big. Music is a proud tradition there.”
Spock looked mildly interested. “I did not know you came from such a cultured background, Doctor.”
“There's a lot you don't know about me, Spock.”
“That is true.”
Uhura ignored the hint, if it was a hint and not merely another point in their constant game. “I've never been there. To Georgia, or the festival. It sounds like fun to me, Spock. What do you think?”
“I am unaware of the auditory qualities of fun. However, a music festival would provide an event of common interest which may prove satisfactory. And, as Dr. McCoy points out, it may provide a clue to understanding his quixotic nature. I am scientifically interested.“
Uhura gave Spock a fond smile. Apparently some women find pedantry iced with snark attractive. Who knew?
They couldn't get clearance for a shuttle, even with Starfleet influence, and had to take the goddamned transporter. When they coalesced on the Broad Street transporter pad, McCoy breathed in the mid-June swelter and looked around. “Same old Athens. Why couldn't they set us down on North Campus under the trees instead of out here in the sun?”
“The climate here reminds me a little of Mombasa,” said Uhura.
“It is excessively humid, but otherwise quite pleasant,” agreed Spock.
Kirk broke out in a sweat.
“Well, we can wait for a bus, or we can just hoof it on over to Finley Street and up the hill,” said McCoy. “I told Mama we were coming.”
“Oh, we couldn't impose...” began Uhura.
“Nonsense. She'd have my hide if I let friends pay for a hotel while she had a guest room available. Besides, there aren't many to be had; people come to this festival from all over.” A group of Andorians passed by, heading towards College Avenue and lending credence to his words. “I advise you not to argue with my mother. The only argument I ever won with her was about going to Ole Miss instead of Georgia.” Spock changed expression slightly at this, for reasons McCoy found unfathomable. In other news, the sky on Earth was blue and June in Georgia was hot.
McCoy's childhood home was on Dearing Street, one of a row of late 19th century frame houses with broad porches and deep back gardens. As they turned the corner from Finley at the top of the hill, he gestured at a large oak tree surrounded by a low enclosure which encroached partway into the street. “That's the Tree That Owns Itself.”
“What?” said Uhura.
McCoy grinned. “Go and look. The plaque explains everything.”
Spock frowned slightly. “I do not understand. I was unaware that trees had legal rights in any Earth jurisdiction.”
“They don't, generally speaking. Just that one. That I know of.”
“That seems contradictory. How can one example of a category have rights the others do not?”
“I don't know, Spock. All I know is that that tree has owned itself since long before any of us were born.”
“Fascinating.”
Apparently Spock was fascinated enough to raise the subject at dinner to McCoy's mother. “Mrs. McCoy, perhaps you can enlighten me. I am fascinated by the existence of an apparent contradiction in the form of the white oak tree at the end of your street. It is my understanding that non-sentients do not have rights of ownership or inheritance on this planet, although there are some Federation jurisdictions where they do. How do you explain why this particular tree is said to own itself, and the land on which it stands? I fear your son was unable to clarify.”
Belinda McCoy gave Leonard a Look which said quite clearly without benefit of telepathy, Stop teasing the Vulcan, son, but answered seriously. “I am not sure that the underlying principle involved is really one of ownership, although it has often been described as such. A few years ago the man who lived on the corner there tried to challenge ownership of that parcel of land...a foolish thing to do, really, because the tree has been on the Register of Historic Places since the late 20th century, and there are documents going back at least that far saying that the tree is in the right-of-way and therefore if anyone owns it the municipal government does. The county officially determines ownership, and the Athens-Clarke-Oconee Unified Government maintains, as an official position, that the tree does in fact own itself. All Mr. Pearson succeeded in doing was to make himself extremely unpopular.”
Spock blinked. “Are you saying that the tree owns itself because the local government says it does? How did that come about?”
“Well, yes and no. The tradition of the tree owning itself goes back for centuries. In fact, the tree that's there now isn't the original tree. There's a smaller plaque that says that the current tree was planted in 1946 from a scion of the original tree that stood on the site. As for how...I'm not sure. The story is that a former owner of the land loved the tree as a boy and deeded the tree to itself in his will. The plaque is supposed to be a quote from the original deed.”
Kirk interrupted, “So, the current tree is the first tree's heir?” His eyes, bright blue, shone with amusement.
“Yes, I suppose so.”
Spock persisted. “Is this deed still on record? That would perhaps explain why the local government maintains the position that it does, if not why they chose to uphold the deed in the first place.”
“I don't know.”
The next morning they ate breakfast on the back porch, the scent of Carolina jessamine drifting in through the screens. McCoy got to explain about grits. Uhura didn't like them and stuck to the omelette, cantaloupe, and biscuits. Kirk put sugar and milk in his, to McCoy's ill-suppressed disdain. Spock ate a bowlful plain and un-sugared like God intended. “Well, Spock, develop a taste for okra and cornbread and we may make a Southerner out of you.”
“The grits are surprisingly pleasant.” He spooned himself another bowl of them, and ate two slices of cantaloupe, then addressed Belinda McCoy, “I believe I shall take some back to the Enterprise for the replicator, as well as some of this melon, if you will allow.”
“I'd be delighted, Mr. Spock.”
“I have some real grits in my personal weight allowance, Spock. I'll cook them for you any time.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” There was a pause while the five of them munched in silence. “I took the liberty of looking up the Tree That Owns Itself in the local database.”
McCoy groaned. “I'm beginning to wish I'd never mentioned it.”
“I'm sorry, Doctor. You did wish for us to take an interest in your childhood home, did you not?”
“Yes, I did. I withdraw my complaint. Go on.”
“It appears that the deed granting the property to the tree, if it ever existed, is no longer extant. The man, William Jackson, who is mentioned on the plaque, did live here in the mid-nineteenth century. But he never owned that land. He lived across the street. He could not, therefore, have deeded the tree to anyone, least of all the tree itself.”
“How can you be so sure? The way I heard the story, he lived there as a little boy and used to sit under the tree. When he grew up he wanted the tree to live on after him, so he made sure it would never be cut down.”
“Ironic, since the tree was eventually destroyed by storm. It is a romantic story, Doctor, nothing more. I can see why it appeals to you; you are a sentimentalist. But it is logically impossible and factually untrue.”
McCoy shrugged. “Maybe they just got the name wrong.”
“That does not explain how a tree should come to own itself in defiance of normal property law, although your emotional attachment to the story may provide an answer in itself.”
“Dammit, Spock, not everything has to make sense. “
“I grant it is an exemplary demonstration of the human capacity to accept illogic with equanimity. When I reflect that this was your childhood home, Doctor, I believe I begin to understand you better.” The expression in Spock's eyes was, as ever, unreadable.
After breakfast they spread out a schedule of bands and a map of the city, both with the Athens Music Festival tagline: 300 Years of Local Music. “You can walk pretty easily from here to the other end of town. I have an errand to run and then I can meet you in front of the Michael Stipe Memorial Auditorium. You can't miss it, it has statues of all of the REM band members out front.”
“Did Leonard tell you he used to be in a band?” Belinda McCoy smiled blandly but there was a glint in her eye.
“No, he did not.” All three pairs of eyes turned towards him, but it was Kirk who sounded faintly accusing.
McCoy snorted. “Just upholding my civic duty. There has to be a musician every thirty yards here, it's a city ordinance.”
“Is that a joke, Doctor?”
“Yes.”
Spock nodded gravely. “After the revelation that your city considers trees to be legitimate heirs, I was uncertain.”
McCoy snickered then looked at Spock sharply. Spock's expression was as bland as usual. He was not making a return joke. Was he?
His mother interrupted these reflections by pulling out, from God alone knew where, a collection of holo recordings of his band performing in the Clarke Central High School talent show.
McCoy cut across North Campus for the shade and so he could smell the lemony fragrance of the magnolia trees. The fat gray squirrels were as cheeky as ever. What if he'd gone here for undergrad, attended Emory School of Medicine where his grandfather taught, or the Medical College of Georgia where his father did, instead of the University of Mississippi School of Medicine...would he have had a different life? Met someone else, gotten married and stayed that way?
He'd thought to get out from under the family legacy by leaving the state. It hadn't worked out that way.
He went down to Jackson and then to Thomas Street, past the railroad trestle and towards the old stadium. He crossed the road there and walked through the gate to his destination. Oconee Hill. He walked through, noting where the musicians must be buried; the Wilson plot for example was covered with flowers and handwritten notes.
He found what he was looking for: a plain gray stone, “David McCoy 2183 – 2254” He said, as he always did, “Hey Dad.” He never knew what to say next. “Sorry I missed you”? “Sorry I wasn't smart enough to figure out there was something wrong”?
Belinda's voice sounded in his head. “Stop blaming yourself, Leonard. God knows you got your pigheadedness and your martyr complex from your father, but I am here to tell you that inheritance does not work in reverse. If you'd been here, he would have ignored you too. Stop trying to take responsibility for everything that goes wrong. It defies logic. It's also just a touch arrogant, son, if you want to know the truth.”
Maybe she was right. Maybe no matter what had happened, he would have found a way to blame himself for it.
He heard a step on the gravel path, and turned to see the last person he would have wanted or expected to see here. “Hello, Spock.”
“I beg your pardon, Doctor. I did not mean to intrude.”
“Don't worry about it.”
“I was not worried.”
“I meant...never mind. What brings you to the cemetery, Spock? More investigation of the tree mystery?”
“My interest here is genealogical. I believe some of my maternal ancestors are buried here.”
McCoy turned back to the monument. A long moment passed.
“I see that I have interrupted your reflections, Doctor. I will continue on my way.”
“This is where my father is buried,” McCoy said abruptly. “He normally taught at the Medical College, but worked a few hours a week at a clinic...so he wouldn't forget why we were all doing this, is how he put it. He caught a new disease strain from a patient, and by the time anyone realized he was ill, it was too late. I couldn't save him. My mother thinks I shouldn't blame myself, but I do anyway.” He added, “The patient lived.”
Why was he telling that rigid half-Vulcan bastard this? Oh. Right.
Spock was regarding him impassively. No, that wasn't really dispassion. It was the same look Spock often got when, McCoy suddenly realized, he was unsure of his ground.
“I believe I understand.”
McCoy opened his mouth to argue that Spock had done everything he could have done, it was just rotten luck, and then reconsidered. He hated it when people said things like that to him. Even if, especially if, they were right. He looked at Spock, who looked back. “My mother says that blaming myself for everything that goes wrong is illogical and a little arrogant. Don't tell her I said so, but I think she might be right.”
“I think your mother is a very logical woman. However, I will not divulge a word.”
As they were strolling up Thomas Street to meet Kirk and Uhura, McCoy said, “Listen, Spock. The thing about the tree...the point, to me, is not whether the original story is true or not. It's more that people love that story, and because they do, the tree continues to exist. The story becomes true. In the end, the tree does in fact own itself. And more than that,” he struggled for words, “it's what they love about the story. 'In consideration of the great love that I bear this tree and the great desire I have for its protection for all time.' The idea that you can make something last beyond yourself just because you care about it. Not always. We all know life is temporary. But sometimes...what you love can endure.”
Spock looked thoughtful.
“The first part of our shore leave coincides with AthFest. Y'all can't pass that up. Besides, you'll get to see the town that produced the likes of me.”
Uhura's eyes lit up. “That's the music festival, right?”
“Yes, ma'am. The finest in the land. Been going on for centuries now...well, with a few interruptions. They take over the whole city, not that Athens is that big. Music is a proud tradition there.”
Spock looked mildly interested. “I did not know you came from such a cultured background, Doctor.”
“There's a lot you don't know about me, Spock.”
“That is true.”
Uhura ignored the hint, if it was a hint and not merely another point in their constant game. “I've never been there. To Georgia, or the festival. It sounds like fun to me, Spock. What do you think?”
“I am unaware of the auditory qualities of fun. However, a music festival would provide an event of common interest which may prove satisfactory. And, as Dr. McCoy points out, it may provide a clue to understanding his quixotic nature. I am scientifically interested.“
Uhura gave Spock a fond smile. Apparently some women find pedantry iced with snark attractive. Who knew?
They couldn't get clearance for a shuttle, even with Starfleet influence, and had to take the goddamned transporter. When they coalesced on the Broad Street transporter pad, McCoy breathed in the mid-June swelter and looked around. “Same old Athens. Why couldn't they set us down on North Campus under the trees instead of out here in the sun?”
“The climate here reminds me a little of Mombasa,” said Uhura.
“It is excessively humid, but otherwise quite pleasant,” agreed Spock.
Kirk broke out in a sweat.
“Well, we can wait for a bus, or we can just hoof it on over to Finley Street and up the hill,” said McCoy. “I told Mama we were coming.”
“Oh, we couldn't impose...” began Uhura.
“Nonsense. She'd have my hide if I let friends pay for a hotel while she had a guest room available. Besides, there aren't many to be had; people come to this festival from all over.” A group of Andorians passed by, heading towards College Avenue and lending credence to his words. “I advise you not to argue with my mother. The only argument I ever won with her was about going to Ole Miss instead of Georgia.” Spock changed expression slightly at this, for reasons McCoy found unfathomable. In other news, the sky on Earth was blue and June in Georgia was hot.
McCoy's childhood home was on Dearing Street, one of a row of late 19th century frame houses with broad porches and deep back gardens. As they turned the corner from Finley at the top of the hill, he gestured at a large oak tree surrounded by a low enclosure which encroached partway into the street. “That's the Tree That Owns Itself.”
“What?” said Uhura.
McCoy grinned. “Go and look. The plaque explains everything.”
They paused and read the inscription:
Spock frowned slightly. “I do not understand. I was unaware that trees had legal rights in any Earth jurisdiction.”
“They don't, generally speaking. Just that one. That I know of.”
“That seems contradictory. How can one example of a category have rights the others do not?”
“I don't know, Spock. All I know is that that tree has owned itself since long before any of us were born.”
“Fascinating.”
Apparently Spock was fascinated enough to raise the subject at dinner to McCoy's mother. “Mrs. McCoy, perhaps you can enlighten me. I am fascinated by the existence of an apparent contradiction in the form of the white oak tree at the end of your street. It is my understanding that non-sentients do not have rights of ownership or inheritance on this planet, although there are some Federation jurisdictions where they do. How do you explain why this particular tree is said to own itself, and the land on which it stands? I fear your son was unable to clarify.”
Belinda McCoy gave Leonard a Look which said quite clearly without benefit of telepathy, Stop teasing the Vulcan, son, but answered seriously. “I am not sure that the underlying principle involved is really one of ownership, although it has often been described as such. A few years ago the man who lived on the corner there tried to challenge ownership of that parcel of land...a foolish thing to do, really, because the tree has been on the Register of Historic Places since the late 20th century, and there are documents going back at least that far saying that the tree is in the right-of-way and therefore if anyone owns it the municipal government does. The county officially determines ownership, and the Athens-Clarke-Oconee Unified Government maintains, as an official position, that the tree does in fact own itself. All Mr. Pearson succeeded in doing was to make himself extremely unpopular.”
Spock blinked. “Are you saying that the tree owns itself because the local government says it does? How did that come about?”
“Well, yes and no. The tradition of the tree owning itself goes back for centuries. In fact, the tree that's there now isn't the original tree. There's a smaller plaque that says that the current tree was planted in 1946 from a scion of the original tree that stood on the site. As for how...I'm not sure. The story is that a former owner of the land loved the tree as a boy and deeded the tree to itself in his will. The plaque is supposed to be a quote from the original deed.”
Kirk interrupted, “So, the current tree is the first tree's heir?” His eyes, bright blue, shone with amusement.
“Yes, I suppose so.”
Spock persisted. “Is this deed still on record? That would perhaps explain why the local government maintains the position that it does, if not why they chose to uphold the deed in the first place.”
“I don't know.”
The next morning they ate breakfast on the back porch, the scent of Carolina jessamine drifting in through the screens. McCoy got to explain about grits. Uhura didn't like them and stuck to the omelette, cantaloupe, and biscuits. Kirk put sugar and milk in his, to McCoy's ill-suppressed disdain. Spock ate a bowlful plain and un-sugared like God intended. “Well, Spock, develop a taste for okra and cornbread and we may make a Southerner out of you.”
“The grits are surprisingly pleasant.” He spooned himself another bowl of them, and ate two slices of cantaloupe, then addressed Belinda McCoy, “I believe I shall take some back to the Enterprise for the replicator, as well as some of this melon, if you will allow.”
“I'd be delighted, Mr. Spock.”
“I have some real grits in my personal weight allowance, Spock. I'll cook them for you any time.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” There was a pause while the five of them munched in silence. “I took the liberty of looking up the Tree That Owns Itself in the local database.”
McCoy groaned. “I'm beginning to wish I'd never mentioned it.”
“I'm sorry, Doctor. You did wish for us to take an interest in your childhood home, did you not?”
“Yes, I did. I withdraw my complaint. Go on.”
“It appears that the deed granting the property to the tree, if it ever existed, is no longer extant. The man, William Jackson, who is mentioned on the plaque, did live here in the mid-nineteenth century. But he never owned that land. He lived across the street. He could not, therefore, have deeded the tree to anyone, least of all the tree itself.”
“How can you be so sure? The way I heard the story, he lived there as a little boy and used to sit under the tree. When he grew up he wanted the tree to live on after him, so he made sure it would never be cut down.”
“Ironic, since the tree was eventually destroyed by storm. It is a romantic story, Doctor, nothing more. I can see why it appeals to you; you are a sentimentalist. But it is logically impossible and factually untrue.”
McCoy shrugged. “Maybe they just got the name wrong.”
“That does not explain how a tree should come to own itself in defiance of normal property law, although your emotional attachment to the story may provide an answer in itself.”
“Dammit, Spock, not everything has to make sense. “
“I grant it is an exemplary demonstration of the human capacity to accept illogic with equanimity. When I reflect that this was your childhood home, Doctor, I believe I begin to understand you better.” The expression in Spock's eyes was, as ever, unreadable.
After breakfast they spread out a schedule of bands and a map of the city, both with the Athens Music Festival tagline: 300 Years of Local Music. “You can walk pretty easily from here to the other end of town. I have an errand to run and then I can meet you in front of the Michael Stipe Memorial Auditorium. You can't miss it, it has statues of all of the REM band members out front.”
“Did Leonard tell you he used to be in a band?” Belinda McCoy smiled blandly but there was a glint in her eye.
“No, he did not.” All three pairs of eyes turned towards him, but it was Kirk who sounded faintly accusing.
McCoy snorted. “Just upholding my civic duty. There has to be a musician every thirty yards here, it's a city ordinance.”
“Is that a joke, Doctor?”
“Yes.”
Spock nodded gravely. “After the revelation that your city considers trees to be legitimate heirs, I was uncertain.”
McCoy snickered then looked at Spock sharply. Spock's expression was as bland as usual. He was not making a return joke. Was he?
His mother interrupted these reflections by pulling out, from God alone knew where, a collection of holo recordings of his band performing in the Clarke Central High School talent show.
McCoy cut across North Campus for the shade and so he could smell the lemony fragrance of the magnolia trees. The fat gray squirrels were as cheeky as ever. What if he'd gone here for undergrad, attended Emory School of Medicine where his grandfather taught, or the Medical College of Georgia where his father did, instead of the University of Mississippi School of Medicine...would he have had a different life? Met someone else, gotten married and stayed that way?
He'd thought to get out from under the family legacy by leaving the state. It hadn't worked out that way.
He went down to Jackson and then to Thomas Street, past the railroad trestle and towards the old stadium. He crossed the road there and walked through the gate to his destination. Oconee Hill. He walked through, noting where the musicians must be buried; the Wilson plot for example was covered with flowers and handwritten notes.
He found what he was looking for: a plain gray stone, “David McCoy 2183 – 2254” He said, as he always did, “Hey Dad.” He never knew what to say next. “Sorry I missed you”? “Sorry I wasn't smart enough to figure out there was something wrong”?
Belinda's voice sounded in his head. “Stop blaming yourself, Leonard. God knows you got your pigheadedness and your martyr complex from your father, but I am here to tell you that inheritance does not work in reverse. If you'd been here, he would have ignored you too. Stop trying to take responsibility for everything that goes wrong. It defies logic. It's also just a touch arrogant, son, if you want to know the truth.”
Maybe she was right. Maybe no matter what had happened, he would have found a way to blame himself for it.
He heard a step on the gravel path, and turned to see the last person he would have wanted or expected to see here. “Hello, Spock.”
“I beg your pardon, Doctor. I did not mean to intrude.”
“Don't worry about it.”
“I was not worried.”
“I meant...never mind. What brings you to the cemetery, Spock? More investigation of the tree mystery?”
“My interest here is genealogical. I believe some of my maternal ancestors are buried here.”
McCoy turned back to the monument. A long moment passed.
“I see that I have interrupted your reflections, Doctor. I will continue on my way.”
“This is where my father is buried,” McCoy said abruptly. “He normally taught at the Medical College, but worked a few hours a week at a clinic...so he wouldn't forget why we were all doing this, is how he put it. He caught a new disease strain from a patient, and by the time anyone realized he was ill, it was too late. I couldn't save him. My mother thinks I shouldn't blame myself, but I do anyway.” He added, “The patient lived.”
Why was he telling that rigid half-Vulcan bastard this? Oh. Right.
Spock was regarding him impassively. No, that wasn't really dispassion. It was the same look Spock often got when, McCoy suddenly realized, he was unsure of his ground.
“I believe I understand.”
McCoy opened his mouth to argue that Spock had done everything he could have done, it was just rotten luck, and then reconsidered. He hated it when people said things like that to him. Even if, especially if, they were right. He looked at Spock, who looked back. “My mother says that blaming myself for everything that goes wrong is illogical and a little arrogant. Don't tell her I said so, but I think she might be right.”
“I think your mother is a very logical woman. However, I will not divulge a word.”
As they were strolling up Thomas Street to meet Kirk and Uhura, McCoy said, “Listen, Spock. The thing about the tree...the point, to me, is not whether the original story is true or not. It's more that people love that story, and because they do, the tree continues to exist. The story becomes true. In the end, the tree does in fact own itself. And more than that,” he struggled for words, “it's what they love about the story. 'In consideration of the great love that I bear this tree and the great desire I have for its protection for all time.' The idea that you can make something last beyond yourself just because you care about it. Not always. We all know life is temporary. But sometimes...what you love can endure.”
Spock looked thoughtful.