Author: melgrieves

Bob stepped carefully up the battered and broken porch steps. The house, once dressed in a fine cream color was now a sad vision of dried, gray wood with an occasional spot of paint trying desperately to hang on. The two front windows had long since become nothing but shards of broken glass standing as sentinels in the faded green panes, and he could see a definite lean of the structure as he looked straight up the wall. He carefully slid the old screen door, to the side. Its hinges had rusted out years ago and the door no longer able to make that slamming sound on closing he remembered as a young boy.  His grandfather had often replaced the connecting spring that made sure of a tight closure and in turn would keep the constant barrage of bottle flies out of the house.

He pushed, with some effort, the old battered wooden door and it gave way. The panels were still intact but the glass in the upper half of the door was cracked and just waiting for the right pressure to fall to the floor.

He stepped into the old kitchen and stopped to look around. His eyes immediately scanned the area down and to his right. He expected to see the old wash basin, the Lava soap, and a thread bare towel hanging on a little stand sitting just below an old framed mirror. There was nothing there.  The blue flowered linoleum was curled, cracked, and buckled, the wall paper, probably put up by his grandmother, was split and falling. The old wood burning stove was long gone, a treasure that some cousin absolutely needed to have; his plan was to return it to its early glory so that it may be used in a mountain cabin. It still sat in the back of a garage after twenty years.

The musty smell was everywhere and a fairly thick layer of dust, blown in from the nearby fields was evident.

The door in the corner of the kitchen was the opening that led about five steps into a dug-out potato cellar.  He remembered descending those treacherous steps to retrieve canned preserves or some such thing for his grandma. The spiders and the darkness made the chore a challenge.  A few cupboards still hung on the far kitchen wall, and the ceiling had dropped in many places, a victim of weather that had destroyed a long-ignored roof.

Diagonally across the kitchen was the door to the front room. At least that was what it was called. The area, at one time housed a sofa, large chairs, a heavy library table, doilies everywhere, kerosene lamps, and many meaningful pictures adorning the wall. Bob remembered an elongated photograph, in particular, of his grandfather and other soldiers posing for the camera sometime during World War I.

He stared out the window for a moment and let his mind wander.

Bob imagined the excitement his grandparents must have felt when they, in 1916, had moved from a tiny homesteading shack into this gloriously roomy home. The days of dirt floors was behind them. They, along with neighbors, endeavored to build the house from the ground up. It was most certainly not a small task during those years. The outhouse, some thirty yards behind the back of the house was barely upright and certainly gravity would soon drop the structure into the dugout hole below it. Down in the coulee below the house, remnants of the old water well poked through the tall dried grass.

The floor creaked and groaned loudly as he walked across the room to the door that opened to a second floor. The stairs were steep, and so narrow that moving furniture must have been a real challenge. Years of bird invasion was immediately evident.  Two separate areas had been crudely structured and a small closet with four hooks sat in both corners of each room The tongue and groove floor looked to be holding its own against the ravages of age. Bob assumed several layers of gray paint must have helped that situation. Missing were the wrought iron bed frames which held the old bed springs and mattresses. He smiled as he remembered their sag that nearly reached the floor.

He stared out the opening at one end of the house looking down at the array of abandoned, rusted farm implements. A large red barn, once the home of chickens, pigs, and a horse or two, had collapsed years ago. He stood there and remembered. He knew his grandparents had left this house for a move into the nearest town, necessary as they had two sons that would soon need schooling. It was also a move because the farm was not supporting his grandfather and the family.  Luckily, he had found employment at a farm implement store, just blocks from their new home. A home they would live their entire life in, and die in.

Bob thought back at the summers of staying in the old house while his father harvested the fields for his grandfather. The house was made livable for a few days each summer so that Bob and his siblings could “rough it” and he seemed, in his mind, to accept the feeling of ownership. He could almost smell the burning kerosene that emitted a dull flickering light at night. He could make out the staticky sounds from a big boxy radio drawing power from a large battery. They sat and listened to the farm report, news, and, of course, the weather forecast. Later, maybe the Jack Benny radio show and music kept them entertained as they played card games. The entertaining Armchair Theatre program usually finished about the time his mother announced lights out. That was a long time ago.

Bob slowly and carefully stepped back down the creaking stairs, across the front room, and out through the old kitchen door to the outside light and fresh air.

Bob moved a good distance away and nodded to the volunteer fire department chief. An accelerant was splashed around the base of the old house, and the blaze was set. The training of the new recruits began.

He walked away and never looked back.

When fear comes a-knocking

There’s sure to be talking

About what could’ve, should’ve, would’ve

Been better, safer, cheaper.

When Fear arrives beside us,

All our doubts mount and ride us

Into an unknown world that grows

Darker, wider, deeper.

When Fear goes unshackled,

Pain and anger raise their hackles

On our backs as hearts close tight,

And we become Fear’s keeper.

When fear thrives inside us,

Hope is still cloaked beside us,

Waiting in goodness and kindness,

Encouraging truth-seekers.

The truth is your witness,

Your sword and your fitness

Against fear and its doubt.

Let the truth knock it out.

Find the good that surrounds us,

Nurtures us and binds us.

Good people, good deeds, good thoughts remind us

To always look beyond and beside and behind us.

My life was boring, tiresome and dull. I mean it was until two weeks ago. Now I don’t know what it is.

My ride on that old public transit bus was hot and dusty. Every window on the thing was open in an effort to stifle the blast furnace temperature inside that creaky, noisy, shaking bus. At least the smoke from all the cigars and cigarettes wasn’t billowing around my nose. Only good thing.

I was concentrating on the newest action comic I had just bought at Schlosser’s Drug Store. The Terror of the Tiny Robots read the big bold lettering on the front page. I was sure that Superman could handle another challenge, just like always.  Reading was a nice diversion on the three-mile ride I had taken almost every day except Sundays this summer. Our family always went to church on Sunday and it seemed that we spent most of the day there. We never missed.

Thanks to my mother, old Mrs. Jackson had a slave to do all of her yard work, and even some stuff in her house.

“Ah, Mom, do I have to?” I remember saying.

“Thomas James Marshall, poor Mrs. Jackson asked everyone at the church for help and they all decided they had better things to do, but not this family. No sir! She needs help and we will be charitable. No more moping or arguing, besides, she said she would pay for your work. Do you understand young man?” came the order.

 All my friends were playing baseball or riding their bikes, and I was busy stacking wood, or trimming bushes, or even burning trash. I had to admit I liked the part when the gasoline diesel mixture whooshed up at the beginning of the burn. Only once did I have to get out the watering hose and stop the flames from heading for the storage shed. I forgot to tell Mrs. Jackson about that.

I was getting seventy-five cents a day plus a dollar extra at the end of the week if I did good work. I never could figure out who decided good work was, but I always seemed to receive a bonus.

The usual chatter and laughter on the bus interrupted the silence of my concentration although I paid little attention. I was getting to the good part.

“You live around here, young man?” Was a voice I clearly heard from across the aisle but ignored.

“Excuse me, young man. Are you a resident of this community?” came a clear demanding question again.

“Uh-huh”, I said and stuck my nose further into my comic.

“Do you know where the Rosenbaum house might be?” came yet another annoying request.

I look up and stared at the man asking all the questions. He was about the age of my father, had dark hair slicked back on each side of his head. My immediate thought was he used too much Brylcreem. And he had one of those pencil thin mustaches, I thought they were called. One just like the actor, David Niven sported. He wore a black shirt, white tie, and a black suit. His shoe shone a spit shine. Kind of a weird guy to be riding this bus, I thought. Nobody else seemed to notice.

“Uh-huh.” Was all I said and turned to look out the window, hoping this man would quit bothering me.

“Well young sir, I am prepared to offer you five dollars if you would direct me to the immediate front door of that domicile.” He man spoke.

Two things came to mind immediately. One, he talked pretty highbrow, and two, five dollars was a lot of money for me. I could blow off work and only show up when I wanted.

“Five dollars just to walk you up to the Rosenbaum place? You know the house had been boarded up for years and years, don’t you?” I asked.

“It matters not, are you willing to complete my suggested transaction?” he said and held out a bill with Abraham Lincoln ‘s picture on it.

I grabbed the money and stuffed it in my pocket, rolled my comic up and slid it in my back pocket, knowing that whatever outcome of the story was, waiting to read the rest of it could wait. Five bucks, wow?

I pulled the stop cord and as we exited the bus, I stopped to tell the driver that the reason I was getting off early was to show another passenger where the Rosenbaum house was. He looked at me with little interest and impatiently waited as we stepped off the bus.

The heat in Gaynor, Texas was unbearable. There never seemed to get a cool breeze anytime of the year. I guessed desert country would always be that way. And the smell of Texas oil was always in the air. I was going to get out of here as soon as I was old enough, that was for sure. Move to California, or maybe New York, someplace where the weather wasn’t always so miserable.

We walked silently along the side of the dusty dirt road for about five minutes but before we turned a final corner the man asked me my name.

“I’m Tommy.” I answered.

“Pleased to meet you Tommy, my name is Smith, John Smith.” He said and extended his hand to be shook.

I gave him a big shake then looked ahead of us.

 I stared down a long winding driveway leading to a big old house. All the windows were boarded up, the yard was overgrown, and the paint was almost peeled away from the siding. Tumbleweeds filled the big front porch area and weeds grew up where ever that could.

“There it is mister.” I said and once more reached into my pocket to make sure the currency was still there. I started to walk away.

“I’ve got one more business opportunity for you, Tommy, that is, if you’re interested.” The tall man in black said as he peered down at me.

I listened.

“I have another five bill that could be yours if you could crawl through a basement opening and go up through the house to unlock that front door.” He said and again pulled out some money.

I looked over to a small window at the foundation and wondered how I would get in. I hesitated. Somehow getting into that old house without someone’s permission seemed wrong. I was just about to reject his request when things went crazy.

Suddenly the man grabbed a loose brick on the foundation and smashed the window. He proceeded to completely clear the pane of glass and looked at me.

“Well?” he asked expectantly.

“Okay, I said, but only if I get paid before I crawl through that hole.”

The deal was done and I found myself peering into a dark dungeon of a basement.

I carefully slipped through the window but ended up getting a long arm cut from small piece of glass that was stuck in the pane. I looked at my forearm and saw a trickle of blood, but the damage wasn’t bad so I just ignored it. The drop down to the basement floor was a little scary since it was so dark, I couldn’t gauge the distance. I hit the hardness of the concrete and stood for a moment. First, I needed to let my eyes adjust to the lack of light, and second, to make sure there wasn’t anything or anybody that was going to attack me.

“Just find the stairs and head on up.” A voice from above startled me for a second. I looked up to see the man sticking his head into the opening above me.

Easy for him to say, I thought. I bumped into boxes, felt around and grabbed poles wrapped in cobwebs, and walked right into a jet-black colored furnace, smashing my forehead along the way.  Finally, I saw the stairs, and quietly and carefully climbed to the next level. I pushed a creaking door open that connected to a fairly small kitchen. I quickly walked to the front of the house and the front door. I didn’t need to spend any more time than necessary in this place. It was giving me the creeps.

I turned the massive door’s dead bolt, and yanked the handle with all of my might. The door inched open, and the man in black began to help from the outside. It finally opened wide, and I took off across the yard, glancing back to see that the man had disappeared into the house.

Still, it was ten bucks. I was rich! I began the walk home. I felt for my comic in my back pocket.

“Oh no, I lost it somewhere.” I muttered to myself.

I carefully retraced my steps to the basement window. It was nowhere to be found. I decided to check further. I looked down across the streaming light and saw it laying just about where I landed on the dark floor. I might come back to retrieve it but decided I had had enough adventure for the day. I headed home.

My mother was watching out the kitchen window as I came up the sidewalk.

“Where have you been? You are almost a whole hour late. Did you have to do extra work? Did the bus break down? Tommy are you okay?” she finished the questions when she noticed the gash across my forearm.

“What happened to you? Let’s get that cleaned up.” She said with a voice of concern.

“Aw, it’s nothing Mama. I decided to jump the Larson’s fence to get home earlier and caught my arm and a piece of wire.” I lied.

No way was I going to tell her what really happened.

I, however, took a chance and pulled out one of the five dollar bills I had earned.

“A man on the bus paid me this money to show him where the Rosenbaum house was and I wasn’t going to pass that up, so that’s why I’m late.” I said quickly without emotion.

My mother screeched, “What man, who was he?”

“I dunno, just some guy that was looking for a place and he paid me money to show him the way. No big deal.”

“No big deal! Young man you are twelve years old. What if he had kidnapped you, or, even worse.” she said after a pause.

She made the sign of the cross and looked up at the picture of Jesus hanging in the dining room.

“I’m okay and a lot richer for helping a stranger out. You said we are a charitable family, right. Well, I was being charitable.” I explained with a hope she would settle down.

It worked. In fact, she never even mentioned my adventure to my father, for which I was eternally grateful.

The following morning as I was eating my Corn Flakes, I spoke to my mother.

“Mama, I got enough money that I want to buy something, do think that’s alright?” I asked.

“Honey, it’s your money, you can do with it as you please, but you should give a little of the new found wealth to the church on Sunday.” She said.

I didn’t say anything about any tithing, but I knew exactly what I was going to buy.

Later that morning, after doing yard work I told Mrs. Jackson I was going to take the afternoon off. I walked into town and found what I wanted. The Pawn and Own store had a bicycle parked out in front with a price tag of twenty dollars. I had looked at it last week and wished I had a few more dollars to buy it. Now I did. We had a bike at home but it was for little kids, this one was just right for me. It had a comfy seat, good tires, I thought, but was missing a front fender. Dad had a bucket of black paint in the garage so I could make that baby look pretty groovy. In minutes I was racing down the street weaving back and forth. It was great. Suddenly I heard a bleep of a siren right behind me. I pedaled over to the side of the road and got off my new purchase.

“Mighty fancy riding there, Tommy.” Came a familiar voice.

Sergeant Willie Amos, our neighbor a couple of houses down the street, walked up and examined the bike.

“Thanks, I just bought it with my hard-earned dollars. What do you think of it.” I asked as I beamed a big smile.

“Now you’ll be able to run more errands for your mother without complaining about having to walk so far.” The big dark-skinned man said with a big smile on his face.

His son, Jerome, was in the same class as me, so we knew each other’s family fairly well.

“Ya, I spose, never thought of that.” I surmised.

“Anyway, keep that bike on the very right side of the street when you are riding, otherwise I might just have to give you a ticket for reckless driving, okay?” Sergeant Amos said and returned to his black and white police car.

I wondered if I should have mentioned something about that weird man I ran into the day before but decided not to since I was paid to sneak into the Rosenbaum house.

I jumped on my ride and pedaled home to show off my new bicycle.

Wednesday was just a little cooler weather and people were outside of their houses enjoying the fact that they wouldn’t burn up if they did a little yard work. I, however, was inside Mrs. Jackson’s house moving boxes and a whole bunch of other things around up in the miserably hot attic. She slowly followed me up the back stairs and quickly sat on an old rocker, then directed me as to where she wanted everything. She found an old photo album and started looking through it while I worked.

“Mrs. Jackson, did you know the people who lived in the Rosenbaum house?” I asked offhandedly.

“Why dearie, what brought up that question?” she asked.

I explained that there was a man who wanted to take a look at the house and I gave him directions.

“Yes, poor Asa and Rachel Rosenbaum had quite a life but it didn’t end well for them. He owned a few wells up by Oilman so they were fairly wealthy. They built a big beautiful house down toward your side of town. They were pretty high society folks but very nice to those who didn’t have much. They had a son, Jacob, I think was his name. Now he was one spoiled kid, and drove his parents crazy. The boy was always getting into some kind of trouble or the other.” She finished talking then looked back at the album.

“Well, what happened to them?” I asked, hoping she would continue.

She looked up and thought for a moment then spoke softly, “That son of theirs ended up being murdered somewhere around Houston. The police caught the guy who did it and put him away in prison. Of course, there was all kinds of gossip and rumors about Jacob being involved with the Italian mafia, or being a fascist, or about being part of gang that robbed a bank, all kinds of things.”

“They just kind of, well, kind of disappeared from society after Jacob died. I rarely saw them after that time. Asa passed not too long after of a heart attack, and I don’t remember what took poor Rachel. There wasn’t any more family that anyone knew about so the bank just boarded up the house and it has sat empty all these years. Such a sad ending.” Mrs. Jackson concluded then dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.

I got off the bus after work, jumped on my bike and rode a short distance back downtown. I wanted to get my comic back if Mr. Smith hadn’t boarded up the window he broke. I arrived at the Rosenbaum house with high hopes, but, darn, no such luck. The window was covered with wood. I took a chance and walked around to the front door. I banged an old metal knocker hanging on the door. It was loud. I just hoped someone was in the house.

“Who is it?” came a voice from behind the door after a few minutes, causing me to jump.

“It’s Tommy, I dropped my new comic book the other day and it is on the basement floor. I came to get it if I could.” I yelled through the thick front opening.

Soon I was standing in the middle of a large front room, looking around at things in disarray. It looked like a hurricane had gotten loose inside the house.

“Sorry for the mess, Tommy, but I’m kind of looking for the same thing as you came to retrieve.” The man, still dressed in black, said apologetically.

“A friend of mine, years ago, promised to keep a collection of books and comics that I had obtained over the years. They are very valuable and some of them are first editions. So, you can see I am anxious to recover them.” He explained.

“My friend died, but not before he told me my possessions were in this house. Unfortunately, he never told me the exact location.” He continued.

“Are you talking about Jacob Rosenbaum?” I asked.

The man turned toward me with a surprised look and said nothing. Finally, he spoke.

“Why yes, he was a very dear friend I had known for a long time.” Mr. Smith explained.

“Mrs. Jackson said he was murdered.” I blurted.

“Why yes, that is what I heard, too. Poor Jacob, such a fine fellow, too.” He said in a follow up statement.

“I’ll tell you what, make your way down to the basement and get your comic and maybe we can talk some more business when you get back.” He suggested.

I carefully walked down the creaking steps and found my comic right where I had seen it lay. I rolled it back up and stuck it in my back pocket. The place was a much bigger mess than when I had slipped through the window a few days before. I hurried up to the first floor.

“Good, you found your comic. I’ll tell you what, I’ll pay you five more dollars to help me look around for my books. If you find my collection, I’ll give you five dollars more. Are you interested?” Mr. Smith asked.

I had time before supper and the chance to make that kind of money was exciting.

“Sure, I said, where do you want me to start.”

The man suggested I do a thorough search in the basement, and gave me a large flashlight for the effort.

I could hear loud noises from upstairs as Mr. Smith was searching everywhere.

I spent about thirty minutes digging in boxes, looking on shelves, and under tables, and even up on the support rafters. There was nothing. I began to consider quitting when my light beam fell on the big old black furnace I had bumped into when I first was there.

I walked over a opened a heavy duty latched door and peered in. There was soot everywhere. I figured the Rosenbaums had burned coal in it at one time. I searched the insides and spotted a brown suitcase set just inside the door. I figured that must be what we were looking for. I pulled on the handle and jerked it out. It was plain looking without any labels or nametags on it. I set it down on the floor and unclicked the two latches that held the top lid to the bottom, and opened the case up.

I stared at a suitcase full of money, all denominations including one-hundred-dollar bills, a lot of them. I was temporarily stunned.

“Ah, I see you found my treasure.” Came a quiet voice from the stairway.

The man in black bent down beside me and ran his hand over the money.

“I’ve been waiting a long time to claim what was mine. If that double crossing Jake had been a little more foresight in his explanation of where this valise may be, he might certainly still be alive. But unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. He was stupid and greedy. “The man said.

I looked up at the man.

“You killed Jacob Rosenbaum, didn’t you?” I asked while trying to breath normally.

“Yes, I did, and I paid for that act by spending almost twenty-five years in prison. Twenty-five years because that spoiled wormy Jake decided to take the bank money all for himself, and I had to teach him a lesson on being trustworthy and honest with his fellow robbers.” Mr. Smith answered.

“Now, I’m leaving with godforsaken house and town and plan to live it up with what is rightfully mine.” He said with a faraway look in his eyes.

“I’ll just go home then; I won’t say anything to anyone.” I volunteered.

The man stood thinking for a moment.

“You know that you are an accomplice now. If get arrested, you will too. You’re the one who broke into this house, and you helped me search for the money.” He said pointed first at me then at the suitcase.

“I don’t think you would like to be in jail. It’s not a nice place to spend your life.” He continued.

“Tommy, I’ll do you a favor. You stay down here until it gets dark then head on home. You better act like nothing has happened, that way the police won’t ever bother you. Do you understand?” he ordered.

I nodded my head and backed up as far away from the man as I could. He started up the stairs with the suitcase, and the flashlight, then stopped and turned.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” He said as he tossed money toward me.

“Thanks for the help, I couldn’t have done it without you.” He laughed.

The man went up the stairs, and I could hear the door lock.

What an idiot I was, I thought to myself. I ran up the stairs that was lit by filtered light shining through the window boards.  I pushed on the door. It wasn’t going to budge.  I wondered if I should stay here until dark like the man suggested, then try to escape.

No way, I thought, the most important plan was to get out of here.

I pushed a table across the floor until it was right beneath the window which I had crawled through just days before. I saw, sadly, that I needed more height. I found a rickety wooden chair, set in on the table and climbed. I began to bang on the wood with my fists but to no avail. I looked around for something to use to loosen them.

I remembered that one of the boxes I had dug through had a fireplace hearth set. I finally found the right one and pulled out a heavy metal poker with a wooden handle. I hefted the discovery, and figured it might work.

Ten minutes later I was crawling frantically through the bashed and broken window. I was afraid the man was waiting outside for me so he could murder me too. I ran as fast as I could to my bicycle and jumped on, pedaling like my life depended on it. I headed down the street to my neighborhood and saw, with a bit of relief, the familiar black and while police car parked in its usual spot.

I ran up to the Amos residence and began banging on the door. I was shouting and crying the whole while. Suddenly the door opened.,

“Tommy, what’s all the racket.” Sergeant Amos asked.

I was wild with fear.

“I “m a , a complis to a crime and will probably go to jail because I helped a murderer find some money and he’s leaving town and I’m in a heap of trouble, but you have to catch that man in black right away.” I blurted.

“Whoa, slow down, now. What man, what money, what murder?” the policeman asked quickly.

“The man who murdered Jacob Rosenbaum was searching in the family home and I found a suitcase full of money from a bank robbery, but Jacob wanted to keep it all for himself and that’s why he’s dead. Now the man, Mr. Smith, says I’m responsible just like him and I’ll go to jail.” I finished.

“Did the man have a car?” Sergeant Amos asked.

“I don’t think so, when I first saw him, he was on the city bus.” I answered.

I quickly gave a description of Mr. Smith to my neighbor and described what kind of clothing he was wearing.

I was given instructions to head on home and stay there until someone from the police department contacted me.

That night and the next day was crazy as I was questioned endlessly by a police detective, and even more so by my parents. I was grounded for a week for crawling through a broken window and, by doing so, helping a complete stranger illegally enter a home. And taking money to do it!

Well, the upshot was that John Smith, also known as Carl Ryder, was arrested as he tried to board a Houston bound bus. The money from an unsolved bank robbery committed years ago, was returned, Ryder was in jail, and I was going to be given a reward for my part of the investigation.

Unfortunately, I was promptly told by my mother the entire sum would be given to the church so that good may come from bad.

So here I stand, looking out over Mrs. Jackson’s big lawn, wondering when all of those leaves would quit falling.  I guess things are still boring, tiresome and dull.

Our life is filled with memories of past events. They are generally categorized by our brain as to the feeling or emotion that was evoked at the time. We can still, to some degree, capture that moment. It may not have the impact or strength that was felt at the moment of happening, but it is real and true.

Deaths, marriages, births, and divorces usually top the list, but many subcategories are included. Accidents or trauma of some kind, victory or defeat at a sporting or competition venue are certainly to be added as are travel experiences and friendship interaction.

Those memories are what make up the past life you have lived. I am saddened by those who, because of a dementia, or memory disease have lost that connection.

I want to tell a story of a past event that had more recently been remembered and renewed.

The years of being a preteen were exciting, educational, and confusing. I was twelve years old, a good student attending the sixth grade. Girls, up to that point, were always just three things; competition, irritation, and gossipers. Most of them were taller than myself and seemed to have something of a maturity I didn’t have.

 Generally, us guys stuck together, excluding the females from any event in which we participated. During past years they would complain to the teachers about our attitude and we were forced to let them play whatever game we were playing. That year, however, the girls could care less about what we were doing. They were busy grouping together, swooning over the newest heart throb, singing some rock and roll song, or comparing clothing and shoes. Things were changing.

I had known Sharon for a long time. She was in the fifth grade and we often walked the same route home from school. Something happened one day as we walked and I experienced “liking” a girl.  She suddenly seemed prettier, smarter, and cleverer. I made an effort to walk on a daily basis with my secret girlfriend. My infatuation continued throughout the winter and well into the next year. Nobody knew of my feelings for a girl and certainly wasn’t going to brag.

Each class room had a valentine’s day party where we exchanged cards. I was surprised to see a card in my homemade box from Sharon. I remember it well. The front display had the proper hearts and frills on it and a beaver was standing on a log. The quote beneath said, “If you don’t want to be my valentine”; I opened up the card and it continued,” just forget the whole dam business.” In that moment I was overwhelmed with a need to thank her for the note. I actually left my class room and all of its hubbub and walked across the hallway to another class. I knocked on the door, asked the teacher if I could speak to Sharon, and thanked her for the card. With that act, the cat was out of the bag. The entire school knew who my sweetheart was. I was okay with that.

We held hands in the playground, but discreetly, and spent the rest of the spring just being close to each other as our age and knowledge of romance would permit. Sharon moved away that summer. I was as heartbroken as any twelve-year-old could be.

She had many relatives in our town and returned for an annual Christmas celebration. I was excited to see her again. She was even prettier than I had remembered. We spent the day together, rode around in wagon filled with hay and sang carols as we went.

It was time to say good-bye and I slowly walked her to her grandmother’s house. We talked about nothing in particular as large flakes of snow began to fall. We reached the driveway and I turned to Sharon. She gave me a big smile, but I had already placed my hands of each side of her face then kissed her. On the lips! I don’t know what prompted me to do such a thing, since I had never kissed a girl before. I quickly turned and left, but not before telling her I would miss her. I floated home. I was a changed person.

That was my distant memory, one that occasionally bubbled up in my consciousness.

I saw her a handful of times throughout the years, knew she had married, divorced, married again, then widowed. Small town information is always there just for the asking.

Last year I attended my community one-hundred-year anniversary. The town slowly grew in population until the early seventies, stopped its growth, and began to decline. People of all ages showed up for the event and the attendee’s interaction was exciting.

I saw Sharon sitting at a large table next to her elderly mother. I sat down next to her. We exchanged pleasantries and information about our life at that time.

I leaned over and spoke to Eleanor, her mother.

“I’m sure she doesn’t remember it, but your daughter was the first girl I ever kissed.” I said quietly.

Eleanor smiled and looked at her daughter. Sharon turned to me and began to speak.

“You mean when we were on the Rosholt’s driveway and it was snowing, and you did this.” She declared and proceeded to cup my face with her hands and kiss me as I had kissed her so many years ago.

My thoughts immediately raced to the fact that she had remembered that one night.

I looked at her and we smiled at each other. We talked a bit more and I moved on to visit others.

A moment of my past became strong and fixed. I knew it now as a memory shared.

Family . . . . over the course of your life, you may have more than one family.  You start off with the family you’re born into – your parents, brothers, sisters, etc.  This is your first family or birth family – the one you usually grow up with.  Then as your life progresses, you may have other families – a church family, a work family, perhaps a family of your own.  I loved my birth family – I had several brothers and sisters, and there were lots of other families where I  lived.  It seemed safe and peaceful there.  

Then one day I was in the yard with my brothers and sisters.  It was a sunny day but a bit on the cool side.  The leaves were turning gold and orange and red.  Just a beautiful time of year – my favorite season actually.  Anyway, I was with my brothers and sisters in the yard, and then we all noticed a tall man eyeing us. He strode over to where we were, looked at each of us, and then he grabbed me!  He was so much bigger than me and I had no way to fight him off.  I stared at my family who were all staring at me too.  The man dragged me to his car and put me inside.  I did not want to go!  I wanted to be with my brothers and sisters.  I wanted to get away, but I certainly couldn’t jump out of the car while he was driving 50 MPH.  What could I do?  The only life I knew was with my family.  Now here I was – God only knows where – and getting farther and farther away from those I loved.

Finally, he stopped at a house in the suburbs.  He got out of the car, picked me up, and took me inside his house.  Inside were two young children and a pretty lady (I hoped she’d help me).  She smiled at me, nodded approvingly at the man, but I got the feeling that she wasn’t really going to help me get back to my first family. The children were quite eager to see me.  I, however, was not so excited to see them.  We were all gathered in the kitchen which seemed to be the center of family activity in this house.  There was a lot of talking, asking, describing, explaining and – wait a minute – did I hear that correctly?  I thought the young boy asked when they were going to cut me.  What?!  For a second family situation, this did not seem promising at all!    

Then they all left me alone while they ate dinner.  When they were finished eating, the man and the two children crowded around me.  At first they seemed to be examining me and talking among themselves.  They turned me around, turned me back, turned me to one side and then the other.  Finally they agreed on which side of me they liked best.  Then they drew little triangles and shapes on me. This seemed like odd behavior to me.  Then the man brought out a knife – I mean a really big, sturdy, sharp knife!  What did they plan to do?   I soon found out – the man jabbed me, cutting into my body.  He cut off the top of my head and removed it.  Then he cut along the shapes he had drawn on my skin.  This did not seem like fun to me . . . .  but the children seemed quite pleased.  Then, to top it all off, he took out my insides! 

Then they put me out on the front porch and placed a candle inside me.  I guess that was to keep me warm overnight.  After all they’d done to  me, it seemed like a pretty small favor if you ask me.  Anyway, I stayed outside after that.  The next night, some children, who resembled small ghosts or witches or some other scary creatures, came to the house, and the pretty lady gave them candy.  The children were all excited and said something about how much they liked Jack O’Lantern which seemed to be the name everyone called me.  Several more costumed children dropped by that night, and the lady gave them all some treats.

A day or two later, my insides were not looking or feeling so great.  The man scraped out the discolored stuff inside me and the kids kept asking about going to the zoo.  So off we went to the zoo.  I had no idea what lay in store for me there, but I didn’t have to wait too long to find out.  At first everyone just walked around and looked at all the animals.  Then, when the zookeeper said it was okay, the man carrying me threw me into the pond where there was a large animal named Hippo with a very large mouth.    My last memory was of the delighted laughter I heard as I was bitten and swallowed and slid down the throat of Hippo.  I never imagined my life would be cut short in such an ignoble fashion.  I sure hope my brothers and sisters fared better than I did!

We sat high in the tree…safe
Supreme and protected.
We pressed close to the man and
Felt the same free feeling.

The roots of that great tree went deep to secure a strong foundation
The man grew up in his community spreading his ideas thoughts and hopes with others.

The leaves of the tree danced a melody of life in
The wind…The same song surrounded the
Man, and his family always.

The tree was the center of the festive backyard holidays
Tossing shade playfully over the children who
Romped below. The man was there, too,
Watching, laughing and enjoying those
who shared in the moment.

The tree discarded its leaves and useless twigs letting us know of yet another
Passing season.
The man let us grow in years of gentle
Responsibility, discarding parenting duties
And passing them to us as we may
Determine my own desires.

The weather battered and twisted
That old tree, starving it of moisture
Or casting a frost at a moment’s notice,
But it survived.
The man, too, watched with keen eyes as nature determined blossoms
Or destruction as he survived each passing juncture of time also.

The tree proudly watched the family grow, new chapters reveal themselves, and the hopes and dreams
Being pursued. The man viewed with interest how our lives unfolded, and was always there for us.

As we grew older and came back to visit, the tree was a familiar landmark to look for, and find…., we looked for a man’s calm and comforting face, too, and found it.

Disease and age are a facet of life. We were there in the last years and knew that time
Was no longer a friend.

The backyard has no shade, the area is blank and plain. The spreading arms of comfort
And love have been cut down.

There, too, is an emptiness in our life. The man is gone but the memories will always remain.  We loved them both……and will miss them

My grandmothers were both very skilled at sewing, knitting, and quilting – the “grandmother arts” as I call them.  I believe that gene skipped a couple of generations in my family – my mother did not enjoy those activities and I didn’t take to them either.  I don’t really consider myself a “crafty” person at all – I don’t draw, knit, sew or quilt.  As I say, I think that gene is somewhat deficient in the more recent branch of my family tree.  My artistic sense is expressed through my writing of poetry, but I seem to lack the visual artistic talents.  That doesn’t mean that I don’t appreciate those arts.  Perhaps I just admire them from the perspective of someone who doesn’t practice that particular artistic skill but happily recognizes the time, effort, creativity and resulting beauty.

About 30 years ago when I was living in the Bellevue area, I saw a notice of an upcoming quilt show to be held at one of the Bellevue high schools.  That sounded like an interesting excursion, so on the day of the display, I drove to the high school and followed the signs into the gymnasium.  It was filled with quilts – quilts hanging on rods, quilts stretched across tables, quilts piled onto shelves, photos of quilts in various booths throughout the entire main floor of the gym as well as the mezzanine.  The quilts were crafted by many different artists, each having her own booth, but one quilter in particular was featured.  I do not remember her name, but she was from Oregon and about 1/4 of the gym’s main floor was reserved exclusively for her quilt display. 

I’m familiar with what I think are generally called patchwork quilts – quilts made from scraps of various fabrics and may or may not be sewn in a pattern.  I know there are various patterns that can be done using differing color palettes – Log Cabin pattern, Wedding Ring, Pinwheel, 8-pointed Star, etc.  But the ones I found most fascinating were quilts that looked like pictures – scenes usually.  

After admiring the many colorful quilts on the mezzanine and most of the main floor,  I came to that portion of the gym which was filled entirely by quilts of various sizes made by the featured artist.  I was in awe.  I saw quilts ranging in size from 12”x18” to king size bed quilts.  The smaller ones could be used as wall hangings – one or several could be featured on a wall.  I came to a series of this small size quilt hung on the wall, and each one was a playing card designed creatively.  For example, the Nine of Diamonds card had a 9 up in the corner as playing cards do and featured a baseball diamond with a player in each of the nine positions on the field.  Another card was the Queen of Hearts and was represented by a picture of Princess Diana with red hearts on her dress.  All the cards were made with small squares of patterned fabric.  I continued to look at each and every card and was told by the organizer of the show – a skilled and fairly well known quilter from Washington – that very few quilters even attempt to make the 52 card deck.  And here I was seeing this unique and beautiful representation of a deck of cards made into hanging quilts.  Truly awesome!

Then I strolled along another row of her smaller quilts and found one quite unique.  I studied it for a minute or two, but couldn’t quite figure it out.  It was a picture of a lot of people sitting in rows in a room but there were white lines criss-crossing the entire quilt. After a few minutes, I looked at the 3×5 card pinned to the wall beside the quilt – it identified the quilt by name and artist, and the title of the quilt was “Looking through the Bridal Veil.”  Then I realized that the viewer of the quilt was the bride looking through her veil at all the people in the church who came to witness the marriage between her and her groom.   

Later when I was decorating my own residence, I began thinking that a quilt above my bed in the master bedroom would be ideal.  Considering we live in an earthquake-prone area, I did not want to experience an earthquake at night and have a wood framed picture, for example, fall off the wall during the shaking.  I figured something soft that wouldn’t break, or hurt anything it fell on, would be most appropriate for that space.  I have always enjoyed going to craft fairs and admiring the creativity of the artists, and I found a local quilter whose quilts I really liked.  I frequented her booth whenever she displayed her wares at a local craft fair.  One day she displayed a quilt of the appropriate size for my bedroom wall.  The quilt appeared to be a nine-pane glass window through which you could view a scene of sailboats on a lake, a large rocky cliff with a lighthouse on it to guide the sailors, and in the foreground some trees and a garden with many blooming flowers.  If you looked closely at the small individual quilt squares, you could find some bunnies, various birds, a kitten and a duck in the fabrics used to create the garden scene.  I bought it then and there, have it on my bedroom wall to this day, and I still love it.

My grandmothers made some beautiful hand-sewn patchwork quilts, but my compelling interest in quilts originated with that first very memorable exhibit in Bellevue.  I continue to be fascinated by quilts and if I’m not careful I would be tempted to purchase more than I could possibly use or display. 

Memory is a game. And the rules are different for everybody.

For some, memory is like an old-style slide carousel: Neat, orderly, each event painstakingly cataloged, waiting its turn to be retrieved and re-lived in Kodachrome.

For others, memory is like a flow-chart, with arrows connecting thoughts via multiple paths. Sketches drawn together to create a journey from beginning to end.

For still others, memory is more like a pinball machine, one thought ricocheting off another creating a colorful kaleidoscope of sights and sounds and feelings.

And, for a woeful few, memory is like an overflowing trash can, surrounded by the detritus of a life lived in full random-mode. The cherish-able is buried under the disposable.

When children learn the Memory card game they’re developing spatial skills that will serve them well later in life: riding a bike, locating ketchup in a crowded refrigerator, avoiding the nosey neighbor’s house on the way home from school, etc.

A Memory game for grown-ups requires those same skills, but adds the stressing factors of time-compression, a cacophony of external demands, regret, emotional baggage and the sheer volume of the minutiae that makes up decades of day-to-day existence. Add to that the annoyingly human trait of trying to make sense of it all and life as a dog has great appeal: The bowl is either full or it’s empty and escape is just a nap away!

As I look out around my neighborhood, I see a few others like me, but mostly I am different looking.  I am not quite the same color. I know in some locations in this country, negative comments are made or actions taken targeting my ethnicity.  I know this is true in some places within this state.  There seems to be a focus on how I look or what is different about me – I’m not really all that different. Some of my friends look a little like me, but most are different from me.  I, myself, have not been targeted by negative or threatening actions, but I know some Asians have been.  It is often in the news.  My ancestors may have come from Japan, or Korea, or China, but they came west in the 1800’s and I have lived in America my whole life.  

I don’t really care what others think is the “right” way to be or look.  I just focus on the positives in my life and I have many –  I am generally healthy, I have a nice place to live, I am cared about and cared for, I get along with those around me, I have enough to eat and drink, and for the most part I can handle whatever comes my way.  How nice if we could all live together harmoniously, accepting and appreciating one another, not just in spite of our differences, but perhaps because of them.  

Some think it’s better to look like the majority of those around you.  Personally, I think diversity – a variety of colors and kinds and shapes – makes the world wonderfully beautiful. Some of Asian descent may be different sizes and shapes than I am – some are tall and picturesque, others are short and muscular.   Perhaps of necessity, we are all considered relatively strong. The writer of this piece loves me, thinks I am quite attractive, and enjoys looking at me every day.  She chose me to be a part of her life because I added variety.   

Did I mention that I like the climate where I live?  I’m not really particular about the weather or my surroundings.  I love the sunny days but enjoy a bit of cool shade when the day is quite hot.  Here’s something you probably didn’t know about me – I feel an odd affinity for helicopters  – I think I was practically born in one.  Anyway, I’m expected to live a long life – perhaps as long as 100 years.  I reach maturity between the ages of 10 to 15 years.   I grow slowly and can reach a maximum of 30 feet in height.  I suppose I am at my best in the springtime – that’s when I really blossom.   Just think – all my ancestors floated down inside a helicopter seed pod and, although none of our variety is really fussy, we all prefer well draining soil.  Yes, I am a Japanese maple and I’m proud of my heritage!

He was somewhere between the dream of chugging a gallon jug of water, the long cool satisfying drink all the while letting its excess flow down his face and chest, and of the thought of shutting off an annoying light now producing a visual red effect in his line of vision.  Opening his eyelids to the offending blast of brightness, causing a flaring blast of irritation, he blinked quickly then brought his hands up to shield him from the sun’s rays.

He had awakened with a start. He brought his head forward for a tense few seconds then eased it back as reality materialized.

For a brief moment he sat perfectly still, allowing his conscious brain to connect with the surroundings. He looked out through the windshield, the flat transparent plate covered with carcasses and splatter of hundreds of insects, and the accumulation of dirt and dust from his many miles of travel. He made a mental note to wash them clean at the next gas station stop.

He had to think briefly on why he was sitting in the passenger side of his car when remembered that the driver’s side seat no longer reclined to any extent.

He kept the thin cotton plaid blanket up around his neck, hoping it would keep out some of the chill of the outside. It was fairly worthless but better than nothing. Since the entire back window was non-existent due to that damned tree falling on the car, the weather came and went as it pleased. Jack sat quietly and tried to remember the previous night.

He shuffled his feet just a little and heard the rattle of cans hitting each other.

“I need to dump out all those empties.” Jack said out loud to no one.

His cottonmouth and parched dried lips unwetted by saliva, offered the impetus to search for one of the beers that may have been untouched. No such luck. And not a drop of water in the car either.

Jack started to wonder what had possessed him to leave the well beaten path after sailing along from Barstow to Baker; most probably because he was well into the twelve pack of sixteen-ounce Coors Light and the brain wasn’t functioning properly.

“Screw it, I think I’ll take 127 to Shoshone through the Mojave Desert. I’m going to take the road less traveled.” He remembered saying.

“I’ll be like Jack Kerouac in that book On the Road once again. Just doing my thing.” He had continued.

Dumb idea. Bad choice. He ran out of beer, had no food, and was sitting in Old Blue in the middle of a desert.

Jack needed to relieve his bladder and pushed open the door.

“Shit, shit, shit!” he muttered to himself.

He looked down to see the loose, soft, ground level was even with the bottom of the door. He quickly got out to see that his beloved 1957 Belair Chevrolet had sunk in the desert sand right up to the chassis. He walked completely around the car examining his situation.

“Crap.” He muttered remembering he had pulled off the road near the Dumont dunes as it was late at night and he felt sleep was taking him over. He barely remembered rocking the old car back and forth in an attempt to free the vehicle from the grips of the desert, then most probably had given up and jumped back the car for the night.

Jack stood emptying his bladder and watched as the yellow stream disappeared immediately into the godforsaken dry earth. Why anyone would want to even live in this country was beyond his comprehension. It was seven o’clock in the morning and he was already sweating. Sweating out the ton of brew he had drunk the night before, he was sure.

He took one more look at the car’s predicament then slid back onto the car seat. He thought briefly that he might be able to stretch out in the back then quickly remembered there was no back seat. He shook his head as he thought about how that had disappeared.

It was one thing after another these past six months or so. Some good, but most not. He pulled his blanket up and closed his eyes to the world. He decided he needed more sleep.

***

“Mommy, where are we going?” little Jackie asked.

The five-year-old was sitting precariously on a plush pillow. It raised his body just high enough so he could see out the window of the big Ford station wagon.

“Don’t worry about it, just enjoy the ride.” Came the answer from his mother, Mavis.

“Where’s Daddy?” came another question.

“Honey, he decided he didn’t want a family anymore so he just left.” His mother said.

The boy turned in his seat to look out the back. He wondered what she meant.

“Mommy, he’s right behind us on the road. I can see Blue.” remarked Jackie.

“No, my friend, Louis is driving that car. Your Daddy said he wanted you to have it so we’re taking it with us.” His mother remarked.

“That’s Daddy’s favorite car. He loves that car.” The boy explained trying to understand.

“Well, I guess you are just wrong, aren’t you.” His mother retorted.

“Now turn around here and sit down. We’ll stop for a hamburger and fries pretty soon.” She added.

****

“Mom, its time to get up. You’ll be late for work.” Jackie yelled through the bedroom door.

She had been warned that the waitress job included being on time for work many times.

He turned back around and sat at the kitchen tablet eating some cold cereal when a big black man walked past him without a nod and left the house. His mother came through the door as she wrapped a house coat around her body.

“I see you found another bum to spend the night with. Which bar was he in?” came an obviously angry and disgusted voice of the teenager.

“Don’t you start on me, young man.” Mavis said as she grabbed a bottle of vodka from the cupboard and poured herself a healthy shot.

“I work hard and I’m entitled to have friends.” She explained.

“Yeah, Louis, who cleaned out your bank account, Maurice, who got you a job in a strip joint so you could keep him in booze, Freddie, who tried to steal Blue but not before slapping me around because I wouldn’t give him the keys, and that greaseball, Vincent, who gave you a chance to be a quality hooker.” Jackie said.

“Who did I miss?” he continued.

“Now, you bring home the flavor of the week after you get piss faced,” He added.

His mother just stared at her son, downed her drink then stormed past him back into the bedroom.

The boy wished his father had never left. He remembered listening to his parents argue at night but didn’t know what about.  He would look for him when he got older, he decided.

***

Jack finished putting the tires back on the Chevy after replacing the brake shoes, checking the fluid levels, and replacing a burned-out headlamp. He backed the car out of the garage, walked completely around the vehicle doing a body inspection, then went to work with the car wax.

He had just gotten his driver’s license and took the classic out for a drive that very same day. He found his girl, Mary, walking down the sidewalk, and proudly gave her a ride to her home.

“This was my dad’s pride and joy. He really took good care of it and I thought I would follow his lead.” Jack explained.

“Where is your dad?” came the obvious question.

“I’m not sure, but I have never seen him since my folks split up.” The boy explained.

“I’m so sorry, Jack, that must be kind of tough on you.”  Mary said with a sympathetic tone.

“I’ll find him, though, and I’ll drive Blue right up to his front door and blast the horn to let him know his son and his car have arrived.

***

High school graduation was quite anticlimactic. After all the years of study, moving from school to school, town to town, Jack wasn’t really connected to a single classmate. He thought of Mary and the other girls he had gotten to know, but they were far, far, away.

His mother didn’t attend the ceremony. She was in the county jail on a drunk and disorderly charge, not her first one. She claimed some guy had stolen a large amount of money from her purse at a bar, and she started beating on him. Mavis never had a large amount of money, ever. She mooched, begged, then propositioned guys to buy her alcohol. She was a mess and had no desire to change.

“Mom, you’ve got to quit the drinking.” Jack had begged her one evening.

“You’re just like your father!” she screamed in a slurred fog.

“He was always on my case, that’s why I left his sorry ass!” she continued then seemed to freeze at the thought of what she had just said.

“Wait a minute, you left him?” Jack asked.

“All of this time you let me believe he was the bad guy. And you stole Blue from him, too, didn’t you?” he continued.

“Oh, you wouldn’t understand.” His mother said, waved him off, and grabbed her glass half full of whiskey.

Jack reached for the glass out of her hands and threw it at the wall. It shattered and scattered shards everywhere.

“I’m out of here!” screamed Jack, and walked toward his room in the tiny apartment.

He began packing immediately with all his worldly possession. They fit in a large back pack. All he had to show for eighteen years of life.

In twenty-four hours, Blue and Jack were cruising down the highway headed for northern California. The radio was blaring, the windows were rolled down, and the sun reflected spectacularly off the brilliant waxed car hood.

He had withdrawn all of his job earnings, money he had earned from work as a mechanic’s assistant. He figured he could get quite a distance before it was depleted. He’d find a job along the way if need be.

He was free of his mother’s shenanigans, the creeps she would pick up, and the lies he had grown up with. He was going to find his father.

***

The drive through the redwood forest was awesome. The size of the trees was unbelievable. Jack walked around the quiet, almost eerie surroundings, and felt an odd feeling of peace. Absolutely stunning sights of those tall giants filled his vision. He continued down 101 to Trinidad, a small community close to the coast. He slowed in the city limits and saw a couple of young women walking along side the road. He stopped.

“You guys need a ride into town?” Jack asked.

The two girls, flashed big smiles at him. They were dressed simply, loose fitting sandals, no adorning jewelry, long straight hair, and a floral crown on each.

“We just finished selling all of our flowers for the day and are headed back to the community. A ride would be really nice.” one of them suggested.

The tall blonde jumped into the front onto a recently installed bucket seat Jack had installed to accommodate the four on the floor gear shift. Proof of the new the transmission Jack had swapped out after work at the garage. They other, a pretty brunette, in the back.

“Smooth ride, dude.” The girl named Moonbeam said.

“Thanks, I’ve had it for a long time and try to take care of it.” Jack said.

“Where did you say you were going? The community?” Jack asked.

“That’s what we call it. A bunch of people who need to get away from the downer society and just enjoy freedom, friendship, and love.” Moonbeam explained.

“If you aren’t headed in any place in particular, you are welcome to hang with us for a while. Everyone would be glad to see you. What’s your name?” the other girl, Sarah, asked.

“I’m Jack, and yeah, I might just do that.” He said with a bit of enthusiasm.

Jack enjoyed the community. They all worked in wood shops, gardens, or kitchens all the while keeping a happy continence about them. Most of the people were young, older than him but not ancient. There were babies, little kids, and no apparent leader of the group. Jack was given the duty of loading bunches of flowers and wood projects onto ancient pickups that would take the products to towns to be sold. A way of making some money for essentials, they explained. It wasn’t hard work and he enjoyed it.

He saw no evidence of alcohol consumption, but teas and fruit were a typical drink. He laughed along with the others and felt comfortable where he was. Quite different that living with his mother.

One night he sniffed an odd smell that was new to him. He walked down toward the beach and saw a group from the community sitting around a beach fire. They were passing a pipe back and forth from one to another.

“Hey, Jack.” One of the guys said.

“Come on over and sit by the fire. It gets cold when that wind whips in from the ocean. Care to imbibe?” he finished and pointed toward the pipe.

“Guaranteed to smooth things out. Get rid of the kinks of the brain. I mean far out.” He continued.

“Is that marijuana?” Jack asked.

“Dude, it is fine Mary Jane, weed, pot, ganga, dope, hash. Call it whatever you want.”

Jack sat amongst the people and gave it a try. Some chuckled as he coughed and hacked, but told him it was perfectly normal for first times users. In less than an hour, Jack was feeling a new, odd, sensation, of relaxation. In a little more than an hour he was fast asleep on the beach. 

Jack would go on to try the drug a few more times but wasn’t that enamored by it. Just part of his traveling experience he decided.

Things continued smoothly for more than a month. One particular night, a huge bonfire was built near the community buildings, a celebration of some celestial happening. There was more than marijuana being passed around and some people were getting a bit crazy. There was a consensus that a few more chairs were needed around the fire as the group stared at the stars. Suddenly the back car seat of Blue was pulled out and set on the ground facing the fire and the ocean night. Jack was a little concerned but knew he could put it back in the next day.

People wandered around the grounds, dancing, singing to guitars, flutes, and drums when suddenly there was a scramble back to the fire. An ember had apparently landed on the car seat and ignited it. The upholstery was quickly disappearing into flames. The seat became no more than a frame and springs attached to it by the time it was extinguished.

The group apologized profusely, but they had no idea how important the car meant to the owner.

Jack sat lamenting the situation a bit away from the group when suddenly Moonbeam and Sarah came and sat next to him.

“I know you must feel bad so Sarah and I wanted to make it up to you.” Said Moonbeam.

“Come with us, but don’t say a word.” Sarah added.

The three stepped into one of the rooms off of the main meeting space. They started to take their clothes off.

“Wait, what are you doing?” Jack asked.

One of the girls put her finger on his lips in a shushing gesture. Soon they were taking his clothes off, too.  It was a memorable night for the lad. He had fooled around with a girl in school, but this was on a whole different level. They kept coming at him and didn’t let go until he was completely empty and exhausted.

Jack woke up to an empty bed, found his clothes, and tried to sneak out of the building.

One of the older women, holding a small child, smiled at him.

“I hope you have enough energy to do your chores. They wait for no man.” She grinned.

That was all anyone said. Jack had a few repeat adventures with one girl or another. They were all different, yet content with the openness of sex. That was alright with Jack.

A three month stay proved to be long enough. Jack’s hair was long enough to have a ponytail, he had grown a short scruffy beard, and was deeply tan. He announced his departure, was wished good luck with his quest to find a missing father, and he and Blue slowly drove the winding, dirt road out of the commune.

Jack sighed as he looked at the missing back seat, but smiled at the flower crown that Moonbeam had placed on his head. He would never forget that place.

***

Jack continued his travels down 101, just taking in the scenery and sights. Back roads intrigued him and he took them often, sometimes driving to dead ends and having to back track. Reaching Garberville, he consulted a map and decided to go straight east through hills and forests. He bought some sandwiches, drinks, and munchies to keep him nourished in case he got stranded with an overnight stop. Unfortunately, sleeping the back seat was not an option, but a blanket and a jacket in the trunk would certainly suffice this time of year to keep him comfortable.

Jack rounded a narrow corner and was stopped by a large truck that was blocking the entire road. It appeared to be an older model logging carrier and a man had his head under the hood looking at the engine.

“Engine problems?” Jack said loudly from a distance as to not startle the worker.

“Yep, old truck may have seen it’s last days.” Came an answer from a middle-aged man.

He stepped down off the rig. He was a large man, big arms and working hands. Dirty denim jeans cut high at the ankles, tee shirt, and large suspenders completed the look of an obvious hard-working person.

“You don’t see many Peterbilt trucks that old in the working field anymore, but we’ve nursed this one along for a long time. Was the first big truck my dad bought for his business.  I have to say it’s part of the family.” The man said as he walked toward Jack, wiping his hands of grease.

“Names Kaplan, like the sign on the truck door. Gabe Kaplan. I have a logging business in this area.” He added.

“Jack Sundstrom. Glad to meet you.” Jack said and extended his hand.

The man engulfed it with his massive mitt but didn’t squeeze at all.

“Damned muscle nerve problem. Not much of a grip anymore.” He explained.

“What’s going on with the truck.” Jack asked.

He had worked on all kinds of vehicles at the shop the past three or four years. He thought he might be familiar with what was under the hood of the Peterbilt.

“The old thing just started losing power, sputtered, coughed, sighed and died.” Kaplan said with a smile.

“Mind if I take a look?” Jack offered.

“Be my guest, young man. I can cut down a tree from any stand, but I’ve never been a genius with engines.” was the owner’s answer.

Jack climbed up and looked around the engine cage. His suspicions were confirmed.

“Nice Hall-Scott 400 with a Hemi Head.” Jack said mostly to himself.

“One of the best big gas-powered engines made. Let’s check some things out.” Jack said settling into a world of his own.

Thirty minutes later Jack jumped off the truck and told the owner to turn over the engine.

The sound of the roar was magnificent, and the smile of Gabe Kaplan was from ear to ear.

“Well done, boy. What was wrong.” Gabe asked.

“Your points are shot, spark plugs definitely need to be changed, a couple of plug wires were shorting, and the distributor was full of dust.” Jack pointed out.

“You need to get this to a mechanic for a tune-up if you want to keep running the hills with it.” Jack added.

“Thank you, by the way, what are you doing in this neck of the woods, sort of speak.” The older man asked.

“I’m just kind of drifting right now, seeing this and that, learning things, living free. Just spent three months at a commune. That was quite an eye opener. Not for me but I enjoyed my stay. Mainly, I’m on a mission to find my dad. I haven’t seen him for fifteen years and would like to connect.” Jack said, wondering why he would share all of this information with a stranger.

“I’d like to reimburse you for your time and expertise, but I’d rather offer you some employment for a good month or so. I pay well, and believe me, you would learn a ton about logging and loggers. Three meals, a roof over your head, and cash on the barrel head. Interested?” The boss man asked.

“I need a fella that knows his way around machinery. It might be things you’ve never worked on, but they all basically need a power plant to function. I want you to bring that equipment up to snuff.” He added.

“Sure, why not.” Jack said.

“Let’s seal the deal with a cold one.” Gabe said.

He got into the cab and came out with two cans of beer. They were dripping with ice dew. Jack took a sip, then another. The coldness felt good going down.

“A logger’s requirement. Always keep a brew on ice for the end of the day.” The man said and raised the container to Jack.

***                        

Working for Kaplan Logging was quite an experience. Jack found the entire crew were hard working, down to earth guys who were also no nonsense. He had been cussed out more than once for something or the other. He tried to stick with engines and equipment but got pulled into all the aspects of the job. Cursing was a requirement, apparently, to work in the trees. Safety, above all, was the main theme of the operation. Anyone who didn’t adhere to the rules of security and safety were usually let go that day. Mr. Kaplan did not mess around.

Jack learned how to sharpen chain saws but in most cases the tree fallers and sawyers took care of their own equipment; and you didn’t touch it. Work was grueling and hard, and it hardened up Jack’s body too. A lot different than sitting around weeding a garden or dancing to a flute.

“Jack, you want to give dropping a tree a try?” the foreman Phil asked him one day.

“Sure, I’m game.” Came a quick reply.

“We got a snag over by the cook hut that needs to come down. Not very big, but a leaner. I’ll show you the ropes.” Phil said.

Excited to try something new and different, Jack dressed in the safety gear, hard hat, and goggles and followed instructions. The tree came down to Phil’s satisfaction and he directed Jack to cut it up as they need some firewood for the main project house. He enjoyed the physical labor, but was constantly thinking about growing up with a selfish, mean spirited drunk for a mother. Believing the stories about his father and hating his situation. Each swing of the axe brought less frustration with his life.

The crew spent their off hours, rainy days, and days where there was no quotas or business, partying, playing cards, or sleeping.  Jack had to admit he was enjoying the taste of beer and its effects. He would think, however, of his mother and her alcohol abuse all the while. He was careful and rarely went crazy with the other guys. Moderation became important to him.

One day he was given the task to fall a tree on the edge of the parking area, with the idea of dropping it on the wide driveway. He went about the routine, cut the required notch in the direction of the drop zone then began to saw on the opposite side to weaken the trunk hold. All was going well when all of a sudden, the tree dropped down on the notch side then fell backwards toward an unwanted direction.

Jack watched in horror as the tree, three quarters of the way up, landed on the back end of his car, which was parked nearby. The weight of the timber produced a big V-shaped bash across the trunk. The back window shattered, one tail fin bent in half, and a tire exploded just from the weight of the blow. He just stood there for the longest time, wanting to cry. He had wrecked his father’s car, the only real connection he had with the man who his family had abandoned.

Nobody laughed or belittled Jack. Some told the story of doing the exact same thing. Those tales didn’t help. Some of the others cut the tree trunk and limbs off and gave Jack a chance to survey the damage. It was even worse without the pine branch camouflage. He checked the undercarriage and determined that the frame wasn’t askew. Now what, he thought. Should I just junk it and find another beater to fix up and keep on traveling?

A week later he bid the logging business a goodbye, jumped into the decrepit looking Blue and limped down the road. A sad pair indeed.

***  

He got plenty of stares as he drove down the highway. He was pulled over twice by the highway patrol, as they determined if he was legal to be moving down the road. He proved that he was each time and kept going. No particular direction of travel got him to a walnut farm. He stopped into the retail part of the operation and bought some nuts. The attendant was a full figured, woman, about forty, who showed a pair of boobs that wouldn’t quit. She had overdone her makeup, her hair was a bronze-colored dye job, and the low-cut, tight-fitting dress was for advertising. She was the consummate cougar.

“Hi, Hon.” She said, “Just passing through?”

“Yep, I’m just get behind the wheel and go where my car takes me.” Jack said nonchalantly.

“I would guess, by the looks of that poor vehicle, your travels are limited.” She said and smiled.

“Well, I’m just about ready to close up shop. I’d like to have company for a drink. Interested?” she asked.

Jack waited around outside the shop as she finished closing. She pointed to a large house about two hundred yards away.

“That’s my place. A bit too big for little old me, but I like it anyway.” She said.

The two walked up the wrap around porch steps of the home. It was well taken care of and reeked of big bucks.

“You must do alright with the walnut business.” Jack said thoughtfully.

“Not a lot of us growers around anymore, the big get bigger. I’m one of the big ones.” She said and laughed, then pushed up her boobs sensually.

“Just you here?” jack said as he looked around.

“Sweetie, it’s just me.” She said and slowly ran her hand across Jack’s rear end as she walked by.

“Let’s celebrate the end of the day with a little drink, shall we?” she stated.

“Have you ever had a Long Island Ice Tea?” was her next question.

“No, does it have alcohol in it.” Jack asked honestly.

“A little bit, but a perfect drink on a late warm afternoon. It’s my favorite.” She said and cocked her eyebrows up.

Minutes later she came back with a tall glass with a few ice cubes. She tipped her glass toward Jack.

“Here’s to little things, she said, and if your little thing needs anything, my little thing ain’t doing anything.”

She gave Jack a lustful smile, laughed and drank most of her tea.

Jack watched her make the second one. A little alcohol my aunt Fanny, he thought. She dumped in vodka, tequila, rum and two or three other things. The booze was definitely making an impact.

The woman, Roxanne, put on some music, and started to sway to the song and move her hips to the beat. Her dress seems to raise high on her thighs as she moved. Jack just sat and gaped.

“I think we’ve had enough of this sweet drink, the woman said. Let’s switch to plain old shooters.”

The young traveler soon looked up to see a lineup of empty shot glasses, and an equally empty tequila bottle sitting on a table in front of Jack. His pants around his ankles and the woman’s head was pumping up and down in his lap. He felt a very pleasant sensation, then things went black for a while.

Throughout the night, Jack became aware of the contorted body gymnastics, then would fuzz out again. He heard her squealing and moaning, alternating with passionate strings of unladylike words. It was surreal.

Jack woke up early as the sun shone through a window. He was laying a large bed, his face inches from the crotch of his bedroom partner. He pushed her off himself unceremoniously. She didn’t awaken but muttered something as she continued sleeping.

His head was throbbing and he looked again at the middle-aged sex partner. He shuddered.

Jack found his clothes scattered in various corners of the room and got dressed. He walked downstairs only to see a young Hispanic lady cleaning up the kitchen. She looked at him just briefly.

“Mr. Boss will be here soon. If you do not want to be murdered you should leave now.” She said.

“You would not be the first boy to fall for stories told by Mrs. Boss.” She continued.

“Mr. Boss is an angry man and when he sees you, that is the end.” she added as she made the sign of the cross. The young woman turned to the sink and continued her work.

Jack didn’t need to be told twice. He basically ran to his car, started up Blue, and was down the road in less than two minutes.

I’m an idiot.” He muttered to himself. Alcohol did it to me again, he thought. Moderation my ass!

***

Money was a little tight, but thanks to the paychecks from Kaplans, Jack was comfortable with his situation. He decided to see the big city lights and head for Las Angeles.

Finally, one evening, he was cruising down Hollywood and Vine. He soon realized there was nothing special about the place. Graffiti, street people, litter, and tourists taking snap shots was all there was. They even took pictures of Blue. Hadn’t they ever seen a wrecked car before, Jack wondered. He left LA, realizing he hadn’t missed anything by not being there before in his lifetime.

He drove most of the night and pulled into a nondescript motel on the edge of Barstow. He needed to take some hours and just soak in a tub, relax, and watch the mindless tube. Tomorrow he would have to formulate a plan to search for his father. Right now, he didn’t have a clue.

The next morning, he found a greasy spoon nearby, ordered up a large breakfast and watched the endless string of truckers and cars go by. Soon he would be right there with them, only he didn’t have a destination. Jack came out of the restaurant and looked over his poor car, the same one he had lovingly washed and waxed just months ago. He noticed a bubble bulge in the passenger rear tire. Lucky that didn’t blow, he thought.

He found an auto repair shop just blocks away off the main road. A guy dressed in greasy coveralls came out to talk. He had just as much grease and grime and his face and hands. This guy would never be hired by my old boss, Jack thought.

“Looking for a good deal on a tire.” Jack said.

“Yea, I see that one’s about to end its life.” The guy said and turned to smile a mostly toothless smile.

He walked around Blue and started to point out problems with all of them.

“How many miles you got on them tires?” he asked.

“Don’t have a clue, but they’ve been on for a long time.” Jack answered.

“I got replacements that’ll fit but they won’t all match. Give you a good deal.” He said and smiled again.

The two finally agreed on a cash price that was reduced when Jack saw that one of the tires was a retread. Jack pulled Blue into the garage bay.

Work was done, money was paid, and Jack took off. He had two whitewalls, and four different brands of tire. They all had good tread. He was ready to travel.  In about sixty miles, then left rear tire area was making a terrible racket. Jack pulled over to check out the noise. He looked at the wheel and sighed.

The dumb son of a bitch had forgotten to tighten up the lug nuts so they had now gouged out the bolt holes on the wheels. Only way to make it completely right would be to buy a new hub and wheel. He pulled out the lug wrench by crawling through the passageway from the back area into the trunk, and began to tighten things up. Satisfied it would hold until a fix, he took off down the road. What next, he thought.

He arrived at Baker, grabbed some fast food, gasoline, and beer at a quick service highway stop. He didn’t even wait until he got into his car before he popped a top and took a long drink. He was still seething about the tire situation. He climbed in and took off toward the desert region.

***

Jack awoke to the sound of traffic going by.

Who would be racing down this god forsaken road at his time of the morning, he asked himself?

 Most were pickup trucks hauling travel trailers, all terrain vehicles, or motocross cycles.  He crawled out of Blue and sat on the hood of the car watching the caravans of people.

Soon a truck stopped and a group of two men and two women exited the vehicle.

“Looks like you’re in need of some assistance.” One of the men said.

“Well, I’d really like to get a drink of water, that is, if you have some to spare.” Jack said.

Shortly a quart bottle of cold water was thrust into Jack’s hands. He undid the cap and drank three quarters of the cool clear liquid.

“Thank you, I decided to make my own road some time last night and it didn’t work out so well for me.” Jack explained.

“What’s going on, there’s a lot of traffic all of a sudden.” Jack asked.

One of the guys explained that it was the annual Presidents Day, all-terrain vehicle rally. It brought people from all over the southwest. Swap meets, sales, and friendship renewals as well a competitive racing was part of the long weekend.

“We’ve got a friend with a pretty good size pickup and a killer winch that could probably get your outfit on more firm ground, we’ll head up and see if he’s around. Just hang tight and somebody will be around to help you out.” A woman explained.

Jack finished the handout of water and continued to survey the depth of his dilemma. Thirty minutes later he heard the sound of a diesel engine approaching. A big GMC Ram 350 pulled beside Jack’s car, then drove ahead positioning it front bumper to his front bumper. A huge winch sat in an extension panel at the front of the truck.

The passenger jumped out with a shovel and looked things over. He began to dig.

“Looks like you hit some quick sand the way that thing is stuck. We should have it out in no time.” The guy said.

Jack kneeled down and moved some sand away from in front of one of the crappy tires by hand.  He moved to the side so that the driver could extend the winch cable to the undercarriage of his car. It was all hooked up and the winch began to tighten under the controls of the truck driver.

The driver gave a quick look back and began the procedure.

“A 57 chevy, huh., he said, I had one a long time ago. A great car.”

“Yeah, I’ve had it since I was a little kid, but Old Blue has seen some tough times recently.” Jack said.

“Old Blue, huh.” He man said, his back to Jack.

“That’s what my father named it.” Jack continued.

The man straightened up staring at the windshield of his truck. He was silent for a moment then turned around.

“Jackie, boy?” he asked it a quiet voice.

Jack stood up from the sand and stared at the man. His mind exploded with thoughts, and his vision danced for just a moment. The memory of a face came flooding back into his mind.

“Dad?” came a question of which he already knew the answer.

The two men grabbed each other in a fierce hug. Tears were rolling down their faces.  Neither was ashamed.

“I looked for you for years.” His father said in a faltering voice. “Each time I came close your mother disappeared again.”

“We have a lot to talk about.” The older man said as he looked into Jack’s eyes.

“Let’s get you out of this sand and have you come up to the camp that’s set up. It’s not far, that is if Old Blue can make it.” He said with a smile.

“It runs great, it just got beat up a little lately, but everything can be fixed.” The son said to his father.

The rest of the weekend was a time of celebration, brief bursts of anger directed toward Mavis, sadness, and a constant stream of acquaintances and well-wishers greeting the long-lost son.

Jack told his story of the lies weaved by his mother, her downward spiral with alcohol and choices in life, his trip away from her, and the damages done to the beloved car. He touched his father’s hands, arms and shoulders every chance he got. The man was really there. He had found his father.

His dad told the story of coming home from a weekend seminar, only to find his family, money, and car gone. He talked briefly of the difficulties of living with Mavis and her drinking, and the arguments they got into.

They were finally done saying I’m sorry to each other, and began making plans to go forward.

His father was adamant that Jack should contact his mother to let her know that he was okay and traveling with his father.  Jack argued that she didn’t deserve the call, but finally realized it would be childish and selfish not to. She, at least, deserved that.

Jack looked forward to get out of the desert and out from under the black cloud that had haunted him for years. And maybe he would wash and wax Old Blue.